10 oouy 
.J52S7 
1895 











LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

®]^ ®w;ng^ l^tx. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





mmM 



SONGS OF SPRING 

AND BLOSSOMS OF 

UNREQUITED 

LOVE 



BYv 



LOUIS M. ELSHEMUS 

Author of "|The Moods of a Soul," etc. 



Youth's bubbling heart. 



WITH 20 ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE 

SEP i 



BUFFALO : 
THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY 

1895 



fe»*'ASH^^S>^/ 









Copyright by L. M. ELSHEMUS 
1895 



PRINTED AND BOUND BY 

THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY, 

BUFFALO, N. Y. 







¥' 



!,<**' 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Spring 9 

What Spring Tells Me lo 

Mystery 13 

Dirge to Dying May 14 

The Dirge 18 

Central Park Hath Freshness 20 

Rhapsody 21 

Lyrics 29 

I Love to Cull the Flowers of the Dell . 30 

Come, Sympathize with me, O Bird 31 

Song 32 

Invitation 33 

Song 35 

Madrigal 36 

Morning-Pearl 37 

Good-Night 38 

A Longing Lover's Song 40 

Sorrow in the Mountains 42 

At Midnight 43 

Momentary Memories 44 

By the Falls 45 

A Bud 46 

When Lost in Schumann's Music 46 

The Loved One's Image Haunts the Mind . . 48 

A Thrill 49 

Come Again, You Comely, Blissful Hour. . . 51 

Love's Dream 54 

Spring is Blushing 55 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Flames 56 

Two Purple Violets I Found 56 

In the Dusk this lay was Born 60 

With all my Heart I Wished That You Were 

There 62 

She Was a Nineteenth-Century Lamia ... 65 

A Sketch for Hannah 67 

The Workings of the Soul 69 

Darkness Grows Luminous When Thinking of 

Thee 70 

If the Flowers Knew It 73 

Song to Mine Angels 74 

Love's Purest Joy 77 

O Dove /8 

Sudden Music Came Astreaming 79 

Love's Mood 80 

Spring's Voiceless Rain 82 

A Lover's Request 83 

Loneliness 84 

She is Fairest 85 

Vain Wishes 86 

A Lightning-Moment of Rapture 87 

The Rare Influence of Music 88 

Memories, Sweet, Yet Sore 92 

Love's History Repeats Itself 93 

Love is the Creator 94 

Spring is Here 97 

May-Ditty 100 

To Mine Ocarino 102 

A Song 118 

Hope is Born of Change 119 

Spring-Morning Rhapsody 120 

The White Violet . 124 



CONTENTS. vii 

PAGE. 

Evening-Strain 125 

The Blackbird 126 

The Smell of Shade 128 

May 4TH, 1891 130 

Pain after Dreams 131 

Spring's Facility to Sing 132 

The Wilderness of Music 133 

Sing Again 134 

Impromptu 135 

May the First 136 

This Came to Me 137 

No End 138 

New Blooms 139 

Contentment 140 

Three Springs in one Week 141 

The Poet 142 

Nature is Never the Same 143 

To THE Meadow-Lark 144 

Rhapsodia 148 

An Inspiration 150 

Rain of Spring 151 

II Primo di Maggio 152 

Uno Quesito 155 

Envoi 157 

Errata 158 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Spring Frontispiece 

To Trail A Winding Trunk to Languid Bend- 

INGS i8 

Where the Procreant Sun Glints Through. . 30 
As Sad Long Thoughts Lie, So the Clouds — 

Above the Hills 40 

Nor the Foam in the Flumes 42 

By the Falls 45 

In the Thickest Deeps of Woods 55 

Then Up A Winding Road 60 

In the Dusk This Lay Was Born 62 

A Sketch for Hannah 67 

In Measures — Graceful As the Three! 79 

Across the Straits the Misty Mountains Loom 92 

Fill Orchards With Fragrance 97 

Where Salmacis Yet Dwelled Alone 103 

Where the Dragon-Flies Feed Upon the Tall 

White Lilies iii 

The Mariners the Fifes of Ghost-Winds Hear! 113 

For Clouds Were Hanging O'er the Sky 119 

The Stony Brooklet's Pet 124 

Away from Dimpling Dales 136 

Sbalza La Capricuola 153 



SONGS OF SPRING 



SPRING. 

NOW Spring, with flowery fillets, dances through 
the East ! 
On snow-drop, bee, dove, asp, and roaming 
beast, 
She breathes a vital spell — blushes to trees, brooks, 
meads ; 
O'er nature gently sways her magic wand — 
From highest peak, to glistening, sea-laved 
strand. 
Then smiles in transport ; then her beaming eye- 
flash leads 
Her morris-step to man — oh ! ecstasy — 
His soul she lulls to love, new-born of Heaven's 
Glee! 



16 Songs of Spring. 



WHAT SPRING TELLS ME. 

^rVOME, O beauty-bathed Spring ! 
\j Tell me all you have in store, 

On your flower-walled arbor-floor ; 
Tell me, maiden-minded Spring ! " 
" I am bashful all to tell ; — 
There are snow-drops for the dell, 
But a red runs o'er my cheek 
When I of the roses speak : 
For they tint the soft, blithe loves, 
Sighing, smiling in ash groves. 
Carols of the birds I tune, 
Till they warbling sound in June. 
Look not at me now — I blush — 
By my touch those roses flush ! 
Yonder nook grows suckle sweet — 
Bees press on them with their feet. 
Now, look through that jessamine bush, — 
Listen to what I tell thee — push 
All those yellow sweets away — 
They are waiting for the May ! 
I sprinkle airs with golden rain — 
Flowers that look like harvest-grain ! 
Flushed am I, mine eyes seem joy — 
I feel more like a flippant boy ! 



W/iat Spring- Tells Me. ii 

For I send to hearts and minds 
Sweetly-scented, dreamy winds : 
They swing joyfully o'er streams ; 
Fill the mounts with Magyar-dreams ; 
Listen on hoary darkling pines, 
Sigh on billows ; — sweep o'er shrines 
(Where Love wafts his incense-fumes.) 
Laugh o'er cypress-lulled tombs ; 
Dash adown a glow-abyss ; 
Fervently dove-nature kiss. 
Step not on those trailing vines ! 
See: white flowers with pinkish lines ; 
Find them in the moist rich woods, 
Hiding, where the small snake broods. 
Ay, redberries ! — taste their flavor ! 
Like the cherry's is their savor . 
Laugh away — " 

"Ay, my bonnie lassie, Spring ! 

How may'st thou tell all to me— 

Arbor thine is vast as sea — 
Ay, my languid beauty, Spring ! " 

" My dowers are many 
As winds that thrid through crook and cranny ; 
Come ! let's dance around together ! — 
Yea, I fill with wine the weather : 
With love's vintage, Heaven-thrilled ; 
In drifting globes of Truth, distilled ; 



1 2 Songs of Spring. 

Strained then by coy Purity ; 
Quaffed in lands where God's love be ! 
Ay, I would not tell thee all 
I let on earth's people fall : 
Mostly, Love revivified — 
This is not to one denied ! 
Then I color fields with flowers ; 
Then I send sweet cooling showers ; 
I fill the walks with songs ; the trees, 
Through whose twigs flow prophecies, 
I deck with juicy vestments green ; 
The groves I trim — the grotts are sheen : 
Beetles burn in armors bright ; 
Fishlings dazzle in charmed light ! 
Cliffs I sash with red glow-bands ; 
Rocks are green with moss-coats ; sands 
Thrill with flies — that glimmer in sun — 
To renew man's love 'tis done ! 
For he then may roam o'er fields ; 
Lip the honey, clover yields ; 
Drink the cooling water — lie 
Down in thought, muse 'neath the sky. 
Love may bloom but in my bower — 
Love and I burst from one flower. 
Lovers want so many things. 

They are never satisfied — 
Yet I bring new marvellings — 

So give all — to none denied! " 



Mystery. 1 3 

"Thanks, thanks! O beauty-bathed Spring! 
Each man may see thy bounteous dowers, 
Sweet-falling like some heaven-sprinkled showers, 

Thanks, thanks! O maiden-minded Spring! 

** For the sake of Love thou givest — 
For Love's growth thou ever livest — 
Each may cull some dower to his choice — 
Thou, Spring! knowest he will aye rejoice! 

"Thanks, O lovely-minded Spring! 

Thou hast shown me all thy dowers; 

Love may cull the choicest flowers! 
Thanks, Love-lulling and Love-breeding Spring!! " 

1885 







MYSTERY. 

THE mystery of things! 

Scarce, from its downy nest. 
The bluebird beauteously sings- 
Then falls to sudden rest! 



O the mystery of thought! 

When void stares o'er the eyes — 
What wonders hours have wrought: 

That sing of songful skies! 



14 Songs of Spring. 



DIRGE TO DYING MAY. 

A train of mourners walk aslowly; 
Weird drums and fifes a dead-march play; 
Its harmony alike to this hath flowing: 

REVERBERATIONS of the roaring river 
Are carried, by the thundering wind, 
To nooks in woods, where faintly they do 
sound; 
And there they sweetly echoed are forever 
By all the feathered warblers in the round; 
And each hath chosen a lay to his own mind. 
And the full-toned sway of the foaming stream 
Is born anew to one harmonious woodland-dream! 

Autumn lunges loudly into Summer's bloom! 
And whirls the wiltering wood-leaves in his wrath; 
Till sear they lie; and snow turns them to earth — 
While Winter sheds his shroud o'er Nature's tomb;- — 
They feed the trees at future welcome birth, 
When Spring strews flowers o'er all the forest-path, — 
And the mouldered leaves that lie in the woods 
Give rich food for the newly-greening solitudes! 

Moulds may not perish on this living sphere! 
In them a vital flood bounds on — for aye! 



Dirge to Dying May. 15 

A witching warble mates the woodbird wild — 

Sweet passion pelts a soothing shower o'er deer 

And doe; — sweet coaxing lisps, till whispers mild 

Unite the breeze with calm repose of day! 

And the love, that is in woman and man, 

Will ever see fresh minds spring up in life's bold van! 

The train's wild tones are hushed, like to a sigh. 
The drums are still — the fifes no longer play. 
They all stop by a fragrant woodland-v/ay. . . . 
When all are mourning in the grasses high, 
A virgin chanteth, to a wildly-wielded harp, a sweet sad 
lay: 

On the last day of the blossomiest month of the 

years 
We mourn; — and shed some silent tears! 
Away are the blossoms on boughs of briery trees — 
Only moans through their twigs a mourning breeze; 
Then wails in agony, and moans — and moans — and 

moans: 
Now despairingly, then faints in sighing undertones! 

May, sweetest month of the long, long year, 

Is resting peacefully in her violet-bier. 

Nor shall her tender cheeks all bloom again 

Till eleven long months will lave the changeful plain ! 

And a sigh for her — fairest! 

And a tear for her — dearest! 



1 6 Songs of Spring. 

With a sparkle of hope in our eye — 
Like the sorrel-gleam in the gloomy sky! 

Strew delicate violets, that grow alone — 
Sweet-scented, and white, by a shady stone. 
Her grave the loud wind wardeth; 
The coming balmly weather guardeth! 
The aspen shall bloom where she lieth — 
By the wood, where the runnel plieth! 

For the last day of the sweetest month of the year 
We mourn! and shed a silent tear! 
Away are the blossoms, the fragrant blooms away— 
And no dear word to ask mild May to stay! 

O May is dead! Her bloom is in a violet-bier — 
The train mourn through the sorrowing forest-lanes. 
And while they walk all slowly — 
A cymbal-cadence clashes loudly through the train: 

If May be dead, with her petals on the mead! 
Her petals O rosy, white, and odorous and fair — 
She dieth for a greater bloom, when all the air 
Is redolent with shining fruits, and golden seed! 

A trailing wind-breath stops the passing train — 
And clutcheth May's sweet violet-bier; — 
With scents and rich perfumes He soars away again 
And this the wondering train do hear: 



Dirge to Dying May. 17 

No grave be dug for May — melliferous May! 

Her sweetest robe may fade, and brown the way — 

But all her fragrance, the rich exuberance 

Of her coy breath — her charming, melting glance — 

They wed my gaze, while through the dreary last 

May- day 
Her charms I carry on to lands, with many a bay 
To freshen all their maiden-bloom through the 

long year. 
There blow I blandly; soften all their spirit-gear; 
Till, when fleet Time hath left his icy cave 
I bring May back, and let her all your woodlands 

lave. 
O May may not lie in a cold, dark grave; 
Nor sit, like a voiceless stone, in a damp, large 

tomb. 
There is a shore where an ever calm-swung wave 
Laps the green lea — May sleeps there, as at home! 

And ere the train acclaim could raise, 

Or give to Wind their one-tongued praise — 

Oh! far they heard the whispering in the wet-leaved trees — 

And May was gone — and all her blossoming did cease! 

Then, like a mist-band (pendant o'er some rocky path), 

That, when the loud wind shouteth out his wilful wrath, 

Ascends the peak — then vanishes in lofty air — so they. 

The stounding train, were swept by mystic influence away! 

They were not clay, nor bred with our so cumbrous blood — 

Quick spirits they, that dwell now by some reedy flood. 

Then lively fly to regions where no lambkins play. 



1 8 Songs of Sprifig. 



THE DIRGE. 

AY, are the blossoms gone, all nipped by tem- 
pest's lip! 

The blossoms of the May! whom heelings 
sought, to sip 

Their nectarine wine; and birds had piped in vine- 
run briers, 

To quaff their quaint perfume, like strains from 
lulling lyres! 

Gone the rank sprays of wild choke cherries, whose 

wild scent 
Calls up voluptuous scenes in some high sultan's 

tent: 
With their white limbs, and breasts atremble to the 

flow 
Of musk-wooed essense — and the bliss of passion's 

woe! 

Where the long, juicy grass is blue, I loved to lull 

my thought; 
To trail a winding trunk to languid bendings, that 

were wrought 
With dear intent; then peer at the rich green, and 

rosy bloom 
Of myriad blossoms! oh! and are they flown — the 

green is gloom ? 



The Dirge. 19 

On my lone walks, the orchards were a calm delight, 
But since the thunder clashed, purple flashes filled 

the night! 
And streaming rain had lashed the herbs, and 

ploughed the roads — 
My eyes were sad — I saw no more those bunchy 

loads! 

Ay, have they left the green and blue-brown hill- 
side lone! 

Those patches here and there of snow! — the cat- 
kins gone ? 

That flaked the breezy noon, and sailed their 
spok6d wool 

From willow to hazel, from rushings to the sorrel- 
pool! 

Ay, are they gone, those rosed blossoms, all those 

tender buds! 
All sweetest musings swept with their pinked, 

fragrant petal-floods! 
Bland thoughts with them are flown; the loving 

eye longs for a spray! 
Ay, blossoms gone! and dead is May! — ay, past is 

scented May! 
Ithaca, N. Y., 1886. 



20 Songs of Spring. 



CENTRAL PARK HATH FRESHNESS. 

^Hj^IS heavenly dear, to leave the city's sound — 
X Where Vice and Crime conspire to fade the 

bloom — 
To stray at some feet from it, where the boom 

Is silenced! Where a saner stream flows round, 

As though peer-Purity had wreathings wound 
In all the air! As if she sprent neat broom 
Pervading the chill park with staid perfume, 

That clung to sear grass on the frosty ground! 

There whispered one lone breath of Spring! the sky 
Was clear, and freshly fluted the bare wood. 

A stillness reigned; — then tender symphony 
From unseen angels cheered the solitude — 

Unbroken — save the peacock's shrilly cry; 
Or wheel's low sound in shady neighborhood! 



Rhapsody. 21 



RHAPSODY. 



YOUTH. 



OTIME ! bring back my wild, wild childhood ; 
When the days seemed filled with fairy- 
dreams ! 
My heart was then deep in the wild-wood ; 

And my thoughts would catch all sunny beams ! 

TIME. 

Never, never may those days live fresh again ! 
Thy days, with the butterfly-hours. 

Thine eves, with the joyous voice. 
Thy morns, with the lark-like showers. 
Thy noons, with the brooklet-noise I 
Never, never ! Youth ! thy childhood's gone — and 
vain 

Thy pleadings to the votary of Life. 
I, fleet-footed, light-hearted, tarry never. 
I travel onward, o'er this globe, forever. 
The days that are flown — are flown like the misti 
That whitens, then glimmers like faint amethyst. 

Then dies — like the memory of Strife ! 



22 Songs of Spring. 

MANHOOD. 

Time ! sweetest friend to Knowledge, studious 

mornings ; 
Waft one dear hour, when my first love was all ! 
When days seemed ages, blossomed with Love's 

adornings. 
Give back my youth, O Love's own thrall ! 
Let the passion-flower, that hangs so lovely, down 

yon arbor's vault, 
Spell one sweet day, when lips said words that now 

my thoughts exalt ! 

TIME. 

Never, never may those days bloom rosy-flushed! 
Thy days, with the longing hours. 

Thy nights, with trysts, and kisses bland. 
Thy lark-morns, with her purple flowers. 

Those long-shadowed groves — with her magic 
hand ! 
Never, never ! Man — thy sweet love wanes — is 
hushed, 

By the sterner sentiment that swells in thee. 
World's days are born — till this sod will be 

green ! 
And I, ever roving, will be master ! and sheen 
The moments ever brighter — but never shall call 
Those younger morns again! and in that Hall 

My fleet hours will melt in calm Eternity ! 



Rhapsody. 23 

AGE. 

Oh ! if the burthen of years be still oppressive 

weight — 
And if my days are weary of the same-sung 

life- 
Ay, Time ! then pass those days when I was strong 

and great, 
Before my sleepful mind, or guide me back to 

strife. 
To Fame, Ambition — to those thundering echoes 

loud 
That made my Glory worthy — all my pulses proud ! 

TIME. 

Never, never, snow-flecked head, those days will 
come ! 
Thy days, with the eager heart aft' fame. 

Thine arbor-hours, all culling laurels won. 
Thy pensive hours, that bloomed a world-known 
name ; 

Thy luck-lulled evens — all when her fair eyes 
shone ! 
Never, never, ashen locks, will those hours bloom ! 

/ am the magic ceaseless waterfall ! 
Whose waters bound from fathomless and living 
Springs, 
Way far in mist-hung wolds of Past ! and roar 
adown, 



24 Songs of Spring. 

With wondrous waywardness, the Cliff of Life 
that rings 
From faint and sullen-whispering drops, that 
stopped for call 
Of lichens, crouching in the ruts and darker 
holes ! 
No air-swung drop is stayed ! each foaming 
crown 
Of white succeeds its swathing precedent — nor 

stops 
To dally on a fern's small bud ; but from the tops 
Of jutting rocks, they tumble rapidly, till all 
The drops, the spray, the foam, and these com- 
mingled, fall 
Into that calm, blue sea of ever cooled souls ! 
I am that magic, ceaseless waterfall ! 
Whose great volume never wooes the western 
wind ; 
Never weds a main, whose bosom's kissed by a wan 

moon ! 
But whose ever-freshened fluid flows from noon to 
noon — 
Uninfected — pure, not tracing foam behind ! 
I am that magic, ceaseless waterfall ! 

AGE. 

Oh ! then plunge me deep into that deep blue sea ! 
Calm, deep sea : Eternity ! 



Rhapsody. 25 

Where the moments, hours, years, 
Aeons of these seething Sneers, 
Mingle, link — and flow in love 
To those marvel-halls above ! 
Time ! then drag me with thy sway 
From these Rocks and Caves away ! 
Till the foam be calmed to waves — 
Till their Calm that Joy-Shore laves. 
Where, in fragrant Temples, dwells 
He, who there our Mystery tells ! 
Time! then plunge me deep into that calm, deep 

sea : 
Deep, blue sea : Eternity ! 
William's Farm, Ithaca, N. Y. 



BLOSSOMS OF UNREQUITED LOVE 

TO A. L. H. — 1885-90. 







LYRICS. 

H! the sweet balm to a life unwedded- 
When all hours useless seem — 
Lyrics are the strokes of fingers 
On life's lyre — fair as dream! 



Ah! the hope-fire of a life un wedded 
When all days so dreary are — 

Lyrics seem the pulses throbbing; 
Sure of better life afar! 

Lyrics are the only solace, sweetning 
Unrequited love's sad hours — 

Were no lyrics known to mortals, 
We'd be slain by sorrow's powers! 



30 Love- Blossoms. 



I LOVE TO CULL THE FLOWERS OF 
THE DELL. 

I LOVE to cull the flowers of the dell: 
The golden bloom; the teeming asphodel; 
The sweet star-seer; the anemones; 
The violets, by roots of mossed oak-trees; 
Their staid white sisters, where the glassy pool 
Reflects the sailing clouds and Spring's light blue; 
The soft arbutus, where the shade is cool; 
The trillium, where the procreant sun glints 
through. 

I love to cull the flowers of the dell. 
For think I then to be a maiden sweet; 
A maiden pure as is the asphodel, 
And modest as the blushing marguereet. 
And while I stoop for all the sweetest blooms 
I think I kneel before some angels rare. 
And oh! they tell me beauteous tales, so fair — 
Of fragrant gardens and of flower-made rooms; 
And joys such that the whispering lovers share, 
When balmy blows June's wanton, vagrant air. 

Oh! then I well would wish to be a maid, 
And be, as is the asphodel, so staid. 







WHERE THE PROCREANT SUN GLINTS THROUGH .... 

Page 30. 



Come, Sympathise with me, O Bird! 31 

For woe could not be mine, nor tears, nor pain — 
But flower-dreams, and flower-dreams again! 
White Mts., N. H., 1886. 



COME, SYMPATHIZE WITH ME, O BIRDl 

COME, swift-flying bird of Spring! 
Come! and flit about my head — 
Carol to the greedy world 
That I am dead! 
For evening seems the glorious morn — 
Eve howleth as a dark storm-sea; 
And night hath no more golden stars — 
So lilt: my love hath left me lorn! 
Spring's fructifying heat seems cool — 
The willow seems a haunting ghoul. 
All cries: oh! how forlorn is he! 
And each sweet sound my heart-throb mars. 

O come, Spring's prettiest musician — 
You may revive my clay's attrition. 
Come, perch upon my locks, and sing, 
That I am dead, that I am dead; 
And flit thou round my drear-grown head. 
And sing to all the world this ditty: 
^^To him who dies in longing: pity! 
For he had deep, deep sorrowing! " 



3 2 Love- Blossoms. 



SONG. 

MY Love! it is raining; 
Pray, stay on the porch. 
For the clouds are complaining, 
They drench Cupid's torch! 
Pray stay! lest thy mab-feet be wet in the spray 
Of rain, and thou shiverest all through the day! 

O linger; and listen — 

In the ivied low porch — 
Till the large rain-drops glisten — 
And wet Cupid's torch. 
Ay, listen to the patter and tinkle in the leaves! 
To birds piping loudly, and thronging the eaves! 

O dream there alone 

Where the rain cometh not! 
Of melodies gone 

That tranced our thought. 
Ay sitting where ivy low dangles and greens; 
Ay, dreaming of love in thine innocent teens ! 

My flower, 'tis raining. 

Pray, stay on the porch ! 
The rain will be waning, 

Till glows Cupid's torch ! 



Invitation. 33 

And while thou art musing and humming a strain, 
Let Love's hours be blooming thy dreaming again ! 

Love! stay there, and listen ! 

Soon all will be glee, 
The snow-clouds will glisten 
For the birds' jubilee ! 
When looking at dancing of drops in the pool, 
Let love-thoughts awake for thine own little fool ! 



M 



INVITATION. 

"Y sweetest soul — mine own true Annie, 
Come walk in the garden with me ! 
For the shower is over, the clouds are fleeing, 
And the freshness thrills; — see, see: 
How the trees are burge'ning; the grass is greening; 
The birds sing sweet minstrelsy ! 

Oh ! walk beside me, thy hand upon my shoulder, 

Thy lips parted, prattling lover's lays. 
For the vernal shower hath gladdened the thrilling 
bird-songs, 
And gilded the bushes' bell-flowered sprays; 
Hath budded the maples — hath tasselied the lindens 
and willows; 
And cooled all the green-fringed forests and ways! 



34 Love- Blossoms. 

Come Annie, mine only sweetest soul in blossom! 

Come, feel the pulsings of spring-shed showers! 
A sweeter breath is wafted — the air is cooler — 

An inspiring thrill revives our powers ! 
For the rain that poured through the morning was 
of Springtime; 

Had an essense that unfolded the flowers. 

Come Annie ! hasten with me to the garden's corner. 
Where the morn has opened a pale pink bud: 

On a bush, with netted leaves, and smell its perfume: 
A fresh Spring-scent, yet bearing a flood 

Of a deathly odor, like the tuberose's — 
Though it still had Winter's paly blood ! 

My sweetest soul, mine own dear loving Annie; 

Enraptured, gaze into mine eye! 
For the fresh sweet air is bathing us, cool as water — 

And the blushing treebuds prophesy 
That our love will, one day, be fresh, and sweet and 
blooming 

Like Spring-shower's emotive melody ! 

Annie, hasten to the joy-breathing garden ! 

Where maid-Spring hath wept her tears — 
With a soul that's mine — a heart that's beating 

To be mine for many years ! 
For the rain is over — the grass is brighter — 

And young nature lavishes cheers ! 

Brooklyn, L. I. 



Song, 35 



SONG. 

COME to the Spring-greened lawn- 
Where some trees are in leaf. 
All in the cool-breathed dawn, 
Exalt love — and kill grief ! 

See ! jewelled grass-blades glisten, 
In such dappled star-light. 

Hark ! — to the gay birds, listen ! 
They shake songs with delight! 

Tears of the night are gemmed 
To fair diamonds at morn ! 

Woe is bright diademmed 
When a hope-dream is born ! 

Come to the glittering green, 
It is morn, mine own love ! 

All the smile-lawn's in sheen — 
By warm sun-rays above ! 



36 Love- Blossoms. 



MADRIGAL. 

AY, tuck thy silken stole, 
For the vernal shower is now descending. 
The first loud thunderings roll ; 
And the purple levin my sight is blending. 
Flashes the lightning, with a purple light, 

A flight. 
Clashes the thunder, with a lion's roars, 

Out of doors ! 

Ay, come, Love, under shelter ! 
For the drops are digging holes in the ground. 

All nature's in helter-skelter! 
For louder is the thunder's sound. 
The levin is gilt — then is whitened — and is 
hurried. . . . 

Be not worried ! 
Clashes come after — then roll, then are fainting — 
dying- 
Like sea-waves' sighing ! 

It is the first Spring-shower 
Of the year, when the clouds rehearse their voice — 

Regain their canon's power 
To be booming their Summer's deafning noise. 
All the rain-drops grow to fluid balls, that slash, 

And plash. — 



Morning-Pearl. 37 

All the rain-rune wearies to a monotone — 
A tinkling on a stone ! 

O Love ! now brighten thy face ! 
For the levin lights not, nor the clashes are calling. 

Be hardy in thy grace ! 
For the drops in their sing-song now are falling. 
All the sweet spatter on stones will soon be a play— 

Of some hours away ! 
Arm in arm, soon we two may be sipping the air, 
By thee made rng fair ! 



MORNING-PEARL. 

ARISE, o sweetest pearl, arise ! 
For the sweet smell of morn is spent — 
Aurora blushes; Venus flies ! 
Hyperion for his steeds hath sent, 
And the golden chariot he mounts: 
To leave his gilt castle and midnight founts ; 
Then gallop his neighing steeds 
On the road that to dark Leto's chamber leads. 

Arise, o sweetest pearl, arise! 
For the cold spectres of night are flown. 

Fair Flora breathes, where Darkness sighs ! 
In the air morn's pure perfumes are blown. 



38 Love- Blossoms. 

Arise, Arise ! 
'Tis Phoebus glows. See the blushing skies ! 
Arise, Arise ! 
O sweetest pearl, arise ! 



GOOD-NIGHT ! 

GOOD-NIGHT ! mine only love, good-night ! 
Oh ! let thy lids lie on thy sparkling pupil's bay! 
Thy dainty hands enfold; thy purest prayer 
pray ! 
Then think of me, and, in thy orison's wreath. 
Let memory exhale one loving breath ! 
Then rest in calm, and holy peace ! 
My love, then let thy heart-throbs cease. 
Good-night ! mine only love, good-night ! 

***** 

See N'ox, dark daughter of Chaos ^ blackest of moulds y 
Hath stayed her two cimmerian mares / 
They drink at the golden horn; 
While Erebus^ hoar, ebon-faced, her infants holds: 
One to ethereal lispings born. 
And one the light of day so fondly wears! 
She who may wax in seven causes great 
And wane from all, till she doth live as Night — 



Good-Night. 39 

Hath retinue so golden — -for her they wait — 

While the mares snort — breathe a milky breath of 
light. 
That flows along the heave7is vaulted halls! 

Then rolls the chariot onward — with stars escorting, 
Through the darkness; — there a small star falls! 

And cuts a path — and eats a cave in the dark earth. — 
While above the ebon mares are wildly snorting, 

The gold-throng sing to Nox her darkly worth! 
***** 

Mine only love ! the bats have gone to bed ! 

The owls are not hooting in affright. 
But the full-moon is golden, the stars are red — 

The mabs are revelling in charmed delight ! 

Then sleep ! mine only sweet — my dear ! 

The night is dark, and dank, and drear ! 

Cover thy lily-bosom — thy dainty small feet 

With the snow-white sheet ! 

So scented with sweets — to dream me asleep ! 

O happy those Angels who for thee fond vigils 
keep ! 

Good-night ! mine only love, good-night ! 
Coy Purity sleeps neath thy pillow — O, so soft; 
Beneath the sheets sweet Chastity lies lowly; 
Thy dreams are born of purest thought O, way aloft! 
Thy face is placid — like a nun's, so holy. 
Good-night ! mine only love, good-nighi! 
Sleep sound ! sweet maid, sleep peacefully ! 



40 Love- Blossoms. 

The roses, that clamber about the low wall, 
Waft all their opiate fumes for thee! 

Ay, soon the fresh morn with his clear horn will 
call !~ 
Good night, O sweetest love ! Good-night ! 
Brooklyn, L. I., 1886. 



A LONGING LOVER'S SONG. 

ONE eastern star sighs on the pine 
Darkning with one black mountain-range; 
It twinkles through the ebon crest, 
Then leaves this vale, so weird and strange: 
Oh ! strange, that Annie breathes no rose-like 

breath — 
Oh ! weird, for no small brook her sweet name saith! 

The sickle-moon so brightly shines, 
Her friendly star, as constant mate — 

Her saffron stole is swathed with fumes 
Of jassmines — while the eve grows late. 

But no fond dove to whisper me love's tale; — 

And chilled my blood — my cheeks so pale, so pale! 

As sad, long thoughts lie, so the clouds 

Above the hills, so black as they, 
Burthened with tears of days ago — 

As is my mind with love's dismay. 




AS SAD LONG THOUGHTS LIE, SO THE CLOUDS — ABOVE THE HILLS. 

Page 40. 



A Longing Lover's Song. 41 

O Anne, how darkling grows my loving mood: 
To pine, and wail in mocked solitude ! 

There trailed passed me a woman fair; 

She seemed like Anne, mine own true love. 
How brightest moments burst in me! 

Each feature sang of Anne, my love! 
And Anne was in the moon, and in the wold — 
And in the stars, and where the brook is gold! 

What may befall thy lover true, 

If never thy fond face he sees. 
Come soon! To gladden his lonely hours, 

Ere sound Death's hallowed symphonies! 
For he is longing — he is woe-begone, 
He'll die, if he must breathe his days alone! 

Eve kisses night! 'Tis drear and dark! 

Oh! there the rich-gold, ringlet-moon 
Sinks down. — A mystery it leaves 

On my sick heart: for late, or soon 
O Anne! thou must be mine, O Heaven's Anne! 
O Anne, we must be one! oh! Angel- Anne! 

Jackson, White mountains, N. H. 



42 



Love- Blossoms. 



SORROW IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

DEEP in the heart of the mountains 
My tears flow bitterly. 
Far from my sweetest own loved-one, 
My heart bleeds fast and free! 
But the watery wind may not drench my woe, 
Nor the trembling falls in their silvery flow! 

Deep in the depth of the canons 
My heart yearns for my dove. 
Way in the groves of the valleys 
My whispers breathe: Oh! love! 
But the purl of the founts may not soothe my loss; 
Nor the foam in the flumes that the storm-winds 
toss! 
Crawford Notch, White Mountains, N. H. 




NOR THE FOAM IN THE FLUMES 



Page 42. 



At Midnight. 43 



AT MIDNIGHT. 

ONLY patters thickly the large-dropped rain — 
While the dark is uncanny to see! 
Drear, soft splashes pass the window-pain — 
Only mutter the drops their sobs again — 

While the dark is uncanny to see! 
Weirdly drip chilled waters to the lane — 
Alone in the chamber am I 
And weep, and cry! 
For far is mine Annie, my love; 
My bliss — my dove! 

Only sounds so hollow the drippling shower — 
While the pines seem like phantoms so tall! 
Low the plash sounds through the midnight-hour- 
Wet hang vines — soaked cold the arbor-flower — 

While the large drops of heaven-tears fall! 
Only splash the drops — low murmurs cower — 

Asad in the loneliness I 

But weep — and sigh — 

For far is mine Annie, my heart — 

My life — my smart! 
Crawford Notch, White Mts., N. H. 



44 Love- Blossoms. 



MOMENTARY MEMORIES. 

OH! those half-hour chats, oh! those half-hour 
smiles; 
Oh those half-hour communions with thee, dear 
Anne! 
Like the budding return of the spring-born wiles 
In the bobolink's voice, so they soothe me, Anne! 

From here, where I'm lonely on the bank of the 
brook, 
That gurgles o'er there— here it soundeth like 
wind! 
I see the bright image-filled clouds from this nook, 
The blossoming boughs — and the bare oaken rind; 
And list to the dreams of the twittering merl; 
While near me the waters their fleeting waves 
curl. 
And here, where I'm lonely, and longing for thee — 
Those words from thy lips, when we shared 
what love yields, 
Are borne by the wind, that is shaking the tree — 
Alas ! to be scattered all over the fields ! 
***** 

Oh ! those half-hour days, when our love was young- 
Oh, those half-hour songs, that have thrilled my 
heart — 



By the Falls. 45 

They are back in my mind, while the clouds, low- 
hung, 
Fashion visions, to soothe my deep longing's 

smart ! 
Endfield Brook, Ithaca, N. Y. 



BY THE FALLS. 

RUSH ! yon fall of liquid snow ! 
Rush ! with low, low thunder-tone ! 
Sound as storms that lash sea-foam; 
As wind through oaks, grown long ago ! 
Splash your feet on the deep green pool; 
Murmur with inner-voice, as lispings gone 
Of her, who pineth in her golden home; 
Who spelled my soul those last days at the school ! 
The sun is kissing all your white silk-bredes; 
Afar the meadow-lark sings in the meads. 
Your gloomy-caves are lit by hanging ferns; 
You murmur as men speak, when all alone ! 
O Fall ! you haunt me, and your cooling flow ! 
But her sweet lucid throat, whose breath 
Is violet-scent — it is not here; 
Her languid laugh, her glance, are gone: 
O glance that thrilled me two long sorrow-weeks 
ago ! 



46 Love- Blossoms. 

And Fall, oh ! whose great tumult " glory ! " saith, 
Though freshness flows, you seem so drear — 
For my love-lip for her rose-dimple yearns ! 
Endfield Brook, Ithaca, N. Y. 







A BUD. 

UR love is like a bud, so rosy-blown — 
It waits till June her blessings will have strown 
To bloom it, fit for Cleopatra's throne ! 



WHEN LOST IN SCHUMANN'S MUSIC. 

OH ! why were the strings sounding fuller and 
fresher than e'er, 
Like cool wind that's blown o'er some morn- 
ing-kissed sea to the shore ! 

Were thoughts of her wafted to me, from the one I 
adore — 

Were perfumes of richest flushed flowers sweet- 
scenting the air, 



When Lost in Schumann! s Music, 47 

While flowed, as Aeolian flutings, the Romanza so 

fair ! 
While mellowed sweet harmonies colored the strain 

evermore; 
And ripplings, like love-runing rills, trebled trill'r- 

ingly o'er. 
Oh ! why were the strings sounding cheery, and 

clary and fair ! 

A fairy hath flown to me, messaging me my love's 
dream ! 
In spirit she sipped some hoar sorcerer's magic- 
made wine — 
O'er odorous orchards she soared till there flashed 
a fair beam: 
A torch for a way to my soul ! — Oh ! I now may 
divine 
Why sounded the strings so intensely as Seraph's 

own theme — 
Her thoughts^ that I heard not, were gloriously 
havened in mine ! 
Long Island, N.Y. 



48 Love- Blossoms. 



THE LOVED ONE'S IMAGE HAUNTS THE 

MIND. 

OH ! in my room's obscurity, 
I saw a gliding apparition gleam ! 
My eyes were open, it was no dream — 
As she, it moved so maidenly ! 

It moved with step so slow and proud — 

Like a pale-purple cloud at evening's close — 
So silently, as waftings from a rose 

That blooms in dew-swathed gloaming's shroud ! 

It seemed like her, I see at day ! 

But her bright eyes were cold — her auburn hair 
Dishevelled — her lips were veiled with whiteness 
rare ! 

Her speech was gone — her bloom away ! 

So stately moved it, as a swan 

That glides o'er tranquil moonlit lake, and 
sings; 

Oh ! sings a languid song, and flaps its wings: 
To breathe the balm of higher dawn ! 



A Thrill. 49 

It moved before me through the gloom. . . 
But when my supplicating arms were raised, 
Her maiden-phantom vanished ! — All amazed, 

I wondered in my sweetened room ! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



A THRILL. 

OH! it may never leave me 
That happy, blessed day — 
There's not an earthly flower 
That glows like its array ! 
North, West, South, East — their dowers; 

The rosy flush of virgin-dawn, 
The breath of fairy-hours; 

The mad-kiss on a crocus-lawn; 
Are cresses to its beauteous bloom — 
May not its glorious glow assume! 
Oh! on that blessed morning, 

Mine eyes saw languishment 
Of love's frame, O so lovely. 
It wafted love's own scent. 
It seemed dissolving slowly 
As vision, seraphs sing to. 
That smiles, and beckons to you; 



50 Love- Blossoms. 

Then faints, — the vision never 

May leave your haunted soul — 

It haunts like vernal forest-toll! 

Oh! it may leave me never 

No image bloom.s here, on this globe, 

To semble its quaint longing. 

High Heaven's host may sing, and robe 

It saintly — but the fragrance 

Is wafted but to one 

Who saw — to him alone! 

Those eyes — that head so dreaming — 

That brow, as Heaven wished to bend — and kiss! 

That body, longing me to fondle — 

Oh! languid all, ail lost in over-bliss! 

Oh! it may never leave me 

That languid, piercing glance! 
Oh! then she surely loved me, 

Languished in lover's trance! 

Long Island, N. Y. 



^^Come Agai7t, You Co^nefy, Blissful Hours. ^^ 51 



"COME AGAIN, YOU COMELY, BLISSFUL 
HOURS!" 

COME again, you comely, blissful hours! 
When one glance had burst our hearts! 
Come! with fuller bloom, more love-filled 
showers; 
Come! with Cupid's ros^d darts! 

Beauty bunches roses: red, saffron, and pale — 

Truth attends to blossoms white, and myrtles 
green — 
Let both Truth and Beauty sprinkle her wedding- 
veil — 

With their flowers fair, she'll glow an elfin-queen! 
Crimsoned Levant hath stolen all those hours — 

For when she passed, my thoughts were thrilled! 
All ponent breezes wafted them in showers: 

The rain was with their perfumes filled! 
Rosy East! — West! that glowest fire-flamed! 
Bring to me again those blissful hours! 

To my thoughts bring back those comely hours! 
Waft their lovelinesses in spring- sweetened showers! 
Bring to me their fragrance, tenfold sweeter — 
Till, when Eros hath our love-day named — 



52 Love- Blossoms. 

Flow the perfume more than sweetly; let our 

thoughts be fleeter! 
Bring to me again those blissful hours: 
Waft their lovelinesses in spring-sweetened showers! 



The shallop of scented sweetness hath stored them 
In the hulk, hewn of Ind's purest poom-wood. 
She sails, when morn's pink's aglow — morn's star 

pales; 
When thrushes outtune the sweet nightingales! 
Full swollen by a breeze that Love's pure lips blow 
Sailing, to far days that live in Love's glow! . '. 
Those hours — how my dreamy thoughts have 

adored them! 
When gloamed the fair eve — when upstarted my 

gloom-mood! 
That shallop, she glideth o'er the sea's bosom: 
So calm — save a ripple there, the sea's blossom! 
She sails to a far sweet Mango-girt haven; 
To a gold-bosomed, orange-glistening harbor. 
Then those hours shall hie o'er streets, vermeil- 

paven — 
To a large-blossomed rose-bush arbor! 
Ay, hours! stay there, 'mong blossoms full red — 
Stay there, till her eyes Love's message have said! 

The soul is sweet — the mind moves on^ — 
The heart is precious — blood is boon — 



^^ Come Again, You Comely, Blissful Hours ^ 53 

Her soul and mind are mine alone — 
Her heart and blood pulse like to mine; — 
Those hours fair shall pulse and throb asoon 
Again — our lips speak words divine! 
Come back again, you comely, blissful hours — 
When Joyance 'tween our heart-throbs flowed — 
Come, sheen again! like sun-lit vernal showers. 
Let Flora fly with lovely flower-load! 



* 



Oh! live again! ere the crocus cuts the mouldered 

leaves — 
Ere ponds reflect the full-pink-blossomed young 

peach trees! 
Oh! shout again! ere the ocean's warm, ere the 

wold-air heaves 
In glistening glare! Oh! come ere Hymen hums, at 

ease, 
His voluptuous ditties to the June-enamored 

breeze! 
Envelope all your thoughts with azaleas' blood- 
red bloom; 
Young hyacinths; odorous heliotropes, and sweetest 

broom; 
Narcissi, valley-lilies, lilacs white, and pinks! 
Bathe in a crystal lake, where oft the white doe 

drinks; 



54 Love- Blossoms. 

Till fresh you bloom, like fragrant shower-bathed 

air, 
That maketh Ramapura's groves glow more than 

fair! 
Then sprinkle the drops from off your honeyed 

tresses 
On our young souls — and bid that Love us blesses! 
April, Long Island, N. Y. 



LOVE'S DREAM. 

MY love is like the holy angel 
That listeneth to the heavenly tones! 
My love is like the seraph-singing 
When all Elysium teems with thrones! 
And though on these cold rocks I may not kiss her 

brow — 
Oh! there! in cooling blowings will she breathe her 



vow 



My love is fairer than the flower 

That bends to drink from woodland-pool; 
My love is fresher than the shower 

That springs from violet-dales so cool! 




IN THE THICKEST DEEPS OF WOODS 



Page 55. 



spring is Blushing. 55 

My love is far too good and tender for this earth. 
Oh! how our souls will be together — at higher 
birth! 
Long Island N. Y. 



SPRING IS BLUSHING. 

OH! Spring is blushing — 
From the glowing hills 
The boiling torrents are rushing — 
And beauty fills 

The scene, and prospect far! 

Oh! Spring is blooming — 
In the thickest deeps 

Of woods the cascades are booming — 
And gladness peeps 

From earth — from evening's star! 

Oh! Spring is telling 
How all is loving, loving — 

How heart's Love-fountains are welling, 
How lovers are roving 

With bonny lassies through brake, o'er plain! 



56 Love- Blossoms, 

Yet low, in the nooks of my heart, 

Like the sonorous thuds of the waterfall, 
There are moans, like drear ululation-sound! 

For my smart — 
My Love-inflicted wound, 

Is cold — then doth appall! 
And it burns — is cold — then bursts to pain! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



FLAMES. 

LOVE'S eternal fire that burns in my torn heart 
i Is like drear Etna's — it will never part! 



"TWO PURPLE VIOLETS I FOUND." 

TWO purple violets I found — 
At the dreamy bourne of the dun-stoled brake: 
Where all the sear leaf-covered ground 
Drank the shower's wine, for sweet Spring's own 
sake ! 



''Two Purple Violets I Found.' ^ 57 

When the gloaming had gloomed the glowing West! 
And the violets were nodding their heads to rest ! 

Two violets I plucked alone ! 
No sweet scent they had, but a thought of thee 

Fond gave to them a myrrh-breath — won 
By the memory of days that have smiled for me. 
And their purple perfume brought back the breath 
That the air loves, when thy voice murmureth ! 

With thoughts of thee, my Love, I glanced 
At the moon, oh ! ambered by the sun's last kiss ! 

But half on her queen-course advanced: 

Oh ! a hope: the goal may be crowned by Love's 

bliss ! 

Now she glowed ! — then brown films did fret the 

gold— 
Again queen: sweet she dreamed of ages old ! 

With violets, close to my cheek — 
While the rustling leaves startled the late blue-bird^ 

That awing, beat its bonnie beak 
To soft trills: so dear, when the South-breeze stirred! 

And I thought of thee, love ! gay singing here — 

But the gloom of the eve shed saddest tear ! 

Alone — alone, in eve's dream-dusk ! 
In the thicket whose tender young boughs sighed 
sad. 

With no wood-rose, whose heavy musk 
Would have drear'ly tranced me in dreams we had. 



58 Love- Blossoms. 

When thine eyes, abashed, would turn from mine — 
When thy voice was so faint — thy grace divine ! 

Through wild-entangled twigs I strolled — 
In the wail of the muttering, sad-voiced brook — 

A mystic murmur o'er the wold — 
And a ghastly sound, heard from ghostly crook. 
And the dying glow-sky — the various trees — 
Were sweet-cradled,in the brook,by the lower breeze! 

Then back to bourne of that gloom-brake — 
On a field, I gazed at the calm gold moon ! 

While softly-wailing winds did wake 
Those sweet smiles of thine, that near winter-noon. 
When it pleased thee to ask of former days — 
When thy voice seemed the strains of love-lulled lays! 

O wind ! that breathed a lusty breath — 

All thy flow from South — where she fares at home. 

O had you borne what her heart saith 
When alone she is — and no one to come 
To be soothing her smart, to redden her cheek — 
None to court her — with her of Love to speak ! 

Two violets I held in my hand — 
While the tinkling bells were so drear'ly swelling — 

The bird was perched on apple-wand — 
While on high the moon glowed, the stars were 
knelling 



^^Two Purple Violets 1 Found. ^^ 50 

All their gold bells ! and days with no violet 
Me consumed — and my heart was one regret ! 

Two purple violets I found 
By the logs where leaves lie so brown and sear, 

Upon the Spring-blessed leaf-strown ground — 
Where the brooklet washed the eve's trailing gear — 
And it splashed it away ! I heard in its spray 
Her bright laughter that made me love that day ! 

Fair violets, sweet memories ! 
Oh ! pervade the blossoms, the breeze-shaken 
wolds! 
And when I walk upon the leas, 
O'er the hills, down slopes, o'er the paths, through 

folds 
Live before my own love-gaze — fume the scene! 
Color hills purplier — the meadows thrice as green ! 
William's Farm, Ithaca, N. Y. 



6o Love- Blossoms. 



"IN THE DUSK THIS LAY WAS BORN." 

TENDER Anne ! at my beloved hour 'twas, I 
strolled 
Along the hedged gray hill-side; 
Then up a winding road, 'long a gloomy wold 

Tenanted by shocking shapes at eventide ! 
(With thy spirit I walked; 
To thine invisable ears I talked !) 
At my beloved hour ! when the pines are gilded, 

Anne. 
When glows the calm eve-air; and the moon is 
flushM, Anne. 

O Charming Anne ! through dells the drear path 

dropt; 
Then beckoned the highway dreamily. 
Passed copse, to cottage came, then sudden stopt: 

To list to clear purls in an orchard-tree. 
(With thy thoughts I communed; 
With thy tender smile the purls were more sweetly 

tuned !) 
More more the road-side gloomed, and the branches 

held light fays. 
Sweet-purpled the mountain far; the white lilacs 

fumed their lays ! 



^'In the Dusk This Lay U'as Born." 6i 

Lovely Anne! I clomb a hillock to its crest; 

Inhaled the air o'er all the hills, 
Some netted trees were darkning the red west — 

And sweetly twittered birds, in peeps and trills. 
(Oh! once I heard thy girly smile; 
Thy grace, so tender, joyed me all the while!) 
Far in the valley haze, the dim town sparkled all 

her gems. 
As though good angels watched; in their curls pure 
diadems. 

Oh! passionate Anne! Above the distant height 

A moon rose: solid sardonyx! 
She cut the dark purple mist, that hid her light — 

As though the moon and mist would wildly mix! 
(Thy heart was near to mine 

For I felt a heart-throb, while no moon did shine!) 
I saw the massive moon; when she glowed alone — 

a queen! 
She veiled her face — then gleamed — till her cheeks 
were a sallow sheen! 

Only Anne! How calm, ineffably serene 
The air, the west, the east, the wolds! 

How few delight in: when the mystic scene 
Itself in shrouds of star-spelled night enfolds! 

(How hankered I after thy pure hand; 

To clasp mine warmly, while the songs were all so 
bland!) 



62 Love- Blossoms, 

I trod the homeward way! in the dusk this lay was 

born! 
Beloved strolls may wind where the scene is weird 

and lorn! 
Williams's Farm, Ithaca, N. Y. 



"WITH ALL MY HEART I WISHED THAT 
YOU WERE THERE." 

WITH all my heart I wished that you were 
there— 
By the sweet gurgling meadow-brook; 
With chasing merls — and blackbirds in the air; 

A splashing mere around the crook — 
And meadow-larks ahopping on the bray, 

Or rustling in their shady nook. 
Green banks of tasselled willows hid the view away; 
And drumming quail afar, that drummed for 
dying May! 

All afternoon it snowed on me, my dear — 
While all the stones were warm and bright. 

The flakes were blown way to the sounding wear 
All while the sun poured down his light! 


















IN THE DUSK THIS LAY WAS BORN 



Page 62. 



''/ Wished That You Were There.'''' 63 

It snowed — but no white sheet lay on the ground. 

The flakes that fell were lost to sight, 
When the bland breeze blew them away! O Anne! 

astound, 
The tasselled willows sowed their seeds without a 

sound! 

How sad am I, that you, sweet, could not share 

With me that tender afternoon! 
It was the time, when all the willows wear 

A delicate green; an early moon 
Wafts on their wooly flowers her gilded song. 

When hazels bud; the wild-vine's rune 
Flows down their twigs; when peaceful clouds the 

pale blue throng. 
When all is joyous; all is witched by May's dear 
song! 

And Anne, thrice hummed that dear sweet throat, 
and whirred 
Its filmy wings — and poised in air! 
It was the golden-necklaced humming-bird 

That thrummed, and twanged — and seemed so 
fair! 
Its long beak drank the nectar from lone flowers, 

That hung like scarlet bells down there! 
How flightily it drank! all poising on short hours — 
Then swiftly thrummed away — to seek full fairer 
bowersi 



64 Love- Blossoms. 

Anne! were you there, when I culled their bloom, 
My wordings would have woven slim 

To tender fancies — flown from Flora's loom! 

Five scarlet horns, with golden brim, 
Hath he to sip his wine from — silk-decked horns, 

With mead-brimmed sacks, and red bands trim! 
And while he quaffs, a tuft of lemon plumes adorns 
His sky — and from some pillage-bee his small ear 
warns! 

The shadows laid their long forms on the sand — 

And blazing was the burning West! 
And lone I trod the bray — with no soft hand 

To touch my longing thoughts to rest! 

1 watched the waters come — then babble — then fall 

Adown a log — to a snake's nest, 
Then flow in wider bed; — I saw a serpent small 
Relish the spray — then sudden flash — and that was 
all! 

The snuffling waters rushed — a sough made moan. 

A fish leapt from his brook-bred weed; 
Soused in the shallow stream — and then swam on. 

A sheld snake left a glittering brede 
Behind, as it wound through the drowsy shade. 

The rocking breeze bent the tall reed, 
And clarified the purls from distant bowery glade — 
And, Anne! a purer spirit from high on me was 
laid! 



^^She U'as a Nineteenth- Century Lamia.''' 65 

Oh! how the evening would have gladder sung, 

If, with thy warble, my path led 
Me past the lazy barns, where pigeons young 

Were fluttering; where swallows fled 
From eaves — and winged the balmy breath of day! 

Past blossomed trees, all white, or red. 
Past chanticleers, that wistful guard their hens — 

past spray 
Of lilac white, past kine, and farmyard fray! 

Williams's Farm, Ithaca, N. Y. 



"SHE WAS A NINETEENTH-CENTURY 
LAMIA." 



w 



AS she a Lamia, dight in maiden-raiments. 
When she first had startled my love-gone 



eye! 



Had she the sorpent-born's sweet wiles and magic. 
Her own luring glance and her warm moist eye! 

And when she saw me in her wild web strangled 
She had calmed her passion, and tranced me 

To love her as a saint would love a woman: 
Soul and heart true tendered with purity! 

Was she a Lamia, with a witching body. 

When she first had sparkled the morning's hour! 



66 Love- Blossoms, 

With all her serpent spell to sweet entice me 
To entangle me well in her tender power! 

When I held my heart high above her tresses 
When she knew that I was in love and wild — 

Then I was forced by flames that burst my heart- 
wound 
To be hers, though she only played and smiled! 

Was she a Lamia, tender as a maiden. 

With heart-speaking eyes, and a smile of truth! 
With holiness of soul shown on her forehead — 

From all falsehood far and so rich in ruth! ' 
And when I caught each silvery purl and golden. 

From two roses red, moulded to her mouth — 
She saw she won me — then she hated, scoffed me — 

And my heart was burnt by a fire of south! 

Was she a Lamia — in her heart a serpent — 

To delude — allure me to her amorous side! 
When she had showed sweet signs of love-affec- 
tions — 
When she sent a love-glance, and then had tried 
To seek for my own eye — had heard my whis- 
pers — 
Then when laughing long in her dimpled cheek 
That I was in her spell — she scorned me, and 
proudly 
Did avert her gaze — would not laugh or speak! 




A SKETCH FOR HANNAH . 



Page 67. 



A Sketch for Hannah. 67 

A Lamia? — Yea, a nineteenth-century Lamia — 

With a pride, a flirt, and a spell in her face. 
But spite of all her serpent-stealing temper — 

She will e'er remain my own lovable grace! 
For all my heart is aglow — a lasting ember! 

And it stings! though she has not wished me 
stay. 
Oh, truth! if sun-rays shine through stormy even, 

So her love will gleam en a future day! 

Long Island, N. Y. 



A SKETCH FOR HANNAH. 

THIS morn I found a simple brooklet-scene, 
Aft* wandering long, and luring hundred 
sheep 
About me — how they bleated, huddled, stared 
At seeing such bold trespasser on their field! 
And Hannah sweet! the distant trees are blue — 
There peep some chimneys through the tall osage, 
Whose slender stems are graceful; 'bout the brook 
Are white and silver willows, and osiers golden, 
Still blooming their wool-catkins: boon of Spring! 
And, ere the warm green waters find a crook, 
A weathered fence outruns the rich-blue shade 



6 8 Love- Blossoms. 

Of silvered, shivering shrubs — then bends its 

boards; 
And, swooning in the herbs and golden flowers, 
Just breaks a bonny wavelet near the pebbles; 
From there the breded waters are swift hidden 
By one virescent sweep of meadow-land! 
And, dear one, over all this Spring-kissed scene 
A blessing sentinel — a leafless tree, 
Drooped so almost to touch the far horizon, 
Does breathe to those young tender shrubs and 

stems 
A language, eloquent of by-gone days — 
A tongue that tells that, though the osiers golden. 
The silvery willows, and the grace-osage 
May green from year to year — the blossomed past 
That hath no pulsings more, sprouts never leaves, 
Nor buds its blossoms — but the ages gone 
May stand on the gray track of memory 
And speak of deeds that were, and hopes that 

bloomed, 
As the black bark and weathered blea unfold 
The days when that tree's slender stems were green! 

And lovely Hannah! one dim day may give 

Me you! and then this sketch, that I will keep 

With all its colors soft, its sparkling lights, 

May joy your eyes — may woo from your fond lips 

A pure love kiss, that speaks how true and deep 

You love your faithful lover, loving you! 



The Workings of the Soul. 69 

The sweet bree-reeing blackbird, perched on twigs 
Of tender osiers, that shade the long marsh-grass;-- 
The clear purl, flowing from the blue-bird, swing- 
ing 
On vines that dream on rustic hedge; — the cheep 
Of catbirds, chasing through tangled willow- 
withes; — 
The distant, tremulous throatings of sweet birds; — 
All, all those simple strains evoked this dream 
That whispered: Hannah will be j^ours! And Anne! 
Above soul's golden brim, my bliss spilled over! 
Williams's Farm, Ithaca, N. Y. 



THE WORKINGS OF THE SOUL. 







H! wonderful, unutterably sweet — 

The workings of the loving soul — 
A thousand times my Hannah I may meet: 
In the fragrant woodlands of my soul! 



Oh! charmful, ail-unutterably fond — 

The kindness of the loving soul: 
My Hannah walks with me to skies beyond — 

Then steps through green groves of my soul! 



7o Love- Blossoms. 



Oh! wonderful, unutterably sweet — 
The workings of the loving soul — 

A thousand times my Hannah I may meet: 
In the redolent rose-fields of my soul! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



DARKNESS GROWS LUMINOUS WHEN 
THINKING OF THEE. 

AS I paced the pavement of the dusk-draped city, 
. , The west it was flushed with a pink and pur- 
ple and red — 
For the stars began shining, and the sun he was 

dead. 
I thought of my love — and my heart it fought with 

a yearning: 
Like fire in a lovely bush it was burning! 

I thought of my love; my heart beat; my cheeks 
they tingled; 
My soul it was lustrous, and haloed by wondrous 

light! 
My feet leapt, as if driven by sudden affright; 
For the sky that was red — it was gone! the dusk 
had mingled 
With the west, and town and spires were leering at 
night! 



Darkness Grows Luminous. 'fi 

****** 

Then methoiight there streamed o'er me a singular 

flood, 
That spent an odor, to awe me, and curdle my 

blood! 
Away, ye! — Grim phantoms spilt opiate-thrilled 

phials 
O'er roofs and streets, o'er spires, o'er people and 

me. 
Then they thronged about steeples, and laughed, 

all turning the dials, 
And played with the time, and pushed the church- 
towers; 
Then rained such sulphurous-scented showers, 
That clave to my brow — and my eyes they grew 

wide! — 
They sought for the seraph-shape of saint — 

Sanctity! 
****** 

But the vision it vanished of sudden — I thought of 

my love — 
And the great, good God that was laboring above! 
Oh! the mysterious influence of paly-palled time! 
When the essence of nature laves chillingly your 
cheek, 
Then the soul surrenders to life that is only sub- 
lime — 
Then each speck of dark, and of light an awe- 
tongue speak, 



7 2 Love- Blossoms. 

Then the lips they do kiss the drear of the hour 
— till a tune, 
Like from flutes in a dusky grove, is born — and it 
haunts the step! 
When the liquid lispings from the bare tree- 
branches rune 
And linger about your locks, whisper wonders in 

your ear — 

Then your eyes they grow large as those of a seer: 

When he's in fumes of witching oils, and herbs, 

and nep! 

There, in your weird-warbled strain you may hear 

The wails of departed — they who have battled on 

bloody mounds; 
The sighs of dejected, who've loved, and lived, 
and have nursed their wounds; 
Then the warble grows passionate — like the sway of 
pine-trees so drear 
Draws passion athrough the brown needles when 
Autumn's wild moan sounds ! 
In the warm chill of the dusk to wander away — 

Alone — with but a thought of your love. 
You see the phantoms peopling the skies so gray — 

But you know there's a wondrous light above! 
Oh! Love! what a solace to the dusk-wandering 

dreamer's fear-sight: 
Those thousand gri^n spectres seem ten thousand a?igels 
i?t white! 



^' If the Flowers Knew It J' 73 

Oh I Love, the truest test of God, 
Love, walking with a myrtle-rod! 
My love! however dark the evening-sod — 

' Twill flame to green if you are in my thought! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



"IF THE FLOWERS KNEW IT." 

OH! if the flowers of the fields — 
If they knew it, if they knew it! 
They would fold their petals to their morning- 
buds — 

And the fields they would feel many minion-floods. 

Oh! if the wild- wood flowers — 

If they knew it, if they knew it! 

The orchid would stand without a queenly crown. 

The lone anemones would hang their petals down! 

And the violets would peep no more; 

Nor the bluets by the balmy shore. 

And the star-flowers would fade— 

The smocks, the fox-bells, in the sunny glade! 

Oh! all would droop their heads, and all would die, 

If they knew how alone with my misery am I! 

Oh! if the flowers of the gardens, 

If they knew it, if they knew it! 



74 Love- Blossoms. 

Oh! the pink would pale; the rose would be red 

not — 
The asters cloud their heaven; the dahlia would 

wed not! 
The heliotrope be scentless — the fuxia would 

faint, — 
And all the gorgeous blooms would be heavy with 

plaint. 
If they knew it, the gardens would fume from 

tears — 
And each flower would mourn for many years! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



SONG TO MINE ANGELS. 

ANGELS! fly to her— 
And tell that her wooer, 
Through day, and dreary night 
Hath borne his doleful plight! 
Oh! strew white lilies over her — 
With scented vairs do cover her! 
Let roses red rain through 
Her chamber so odorous; 
Let not a sharp pain through. 
Nor troubles, so onerous. 
Be playing your fiddles 



Song to Mine Angels. 75 

As symphonies of glory — 

And tell her those riddles, 

That sheen our life's story! 

Let no animosity 

Be stirring her tender heart — 

Let couth generosity 

See that no Love-sender part! 

For she is a fairy! 

She's all so unwary 

That red o'er her dimples floods' 

For she is a flower, 

That opened an hour 

Before the plant's other buds! 

O angels, she's esteemed. 

Her carriage is queenly — 

She walks, as Hannah deemed: 

Fearless and serenely! 

O angels she is maidenly — 

And hoppeth as Nycheia — 

With her April-like eyes; 

And though her form all laden be 

With beauties like Maia — 

She's mine for the skies! 

Pray! therefore fly to her 

And whisper: her wooer 

Is singing in silent longing! 

And whisper: she's sweet — 

For me more than meet — 

While memories my heart are thronging! 

O angels, soft cover her — 



76 Love-Blossoms, 

Strew lilies all over her; 
Chaste thoughts through her hair-locks 
Be guiding them so silently! 
Through the tangles of her fair-locks 
Flow purest streams of Love's sweet glee! 
Oh! sing to her symphonies! 
Oh! chant to her prophesies! 
Oh! keep her, as the rose in forests! 
Oh! see that her dear loving so rests 
That all its languors are for me! 
O angels! be singing; 
O angels! be bringing 
My love to her heart! 
O angels! be sending — 
O angels! be bending 
Your bow for the arrow — 
Your shaft that is narrow — 
To pierce her a smart! 
Oh! know her worthy of Heaven! 
And tell her she hath been given 
To him who loves Eternity! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



Love' s Purest Joy. 77 



LOVE'S PUREST JOY. 

IT is balm, that floweth down Hymettus-mount — 
It is perfume, sweet-exhaled by Aegle's fount ! 
It is fragrance, shed from Flora's flower-shades — 
It is sweetness, from fair Ceres' golden glades ! 
It is air that blows coy Zephyrus through Olympos- 

pines ! 
It is like the rush, and flush, they heard, and saw 

by Bachus' wines ! 
It is mystical as were the songs in wise Dodona's 

grove. 
It is richer than the Paphian sound, where Venus 
dreamed of love. 

It is fresher than the fabled Hippocrene — 
It is goldier-spun, than gold-leaves, that were 
seen, 

When firy Helios wandered through his cherished 
tree I 
It is fancyful as tales that lost Ulysses told 
To Nausicaa, of princesses sweetest she ! 
It is rapturous as garland-dances of the Oread. 
Dithyrambic more than Satyr-revels in the wold 
Where Silenus, maudlin, lay asleep in evening- 
shade ! 



78 Love- Blossoms. 

More than all those sweets of Greece, of goddesses, 
of gods — 
Is that purest joy I feel, when Annie's self — 
She my beamings only pretty dearest maiden- elf — 
Cometh dancing^ blushing over thought's sweet-bloom- 
ing sods. 
Long Island, N. Y. 







O DOVE ! 

DOVE ! my heart is thy nest- 

My soul is thy sky — 
Wherein thou mayest find rest; 
Wherethrough thou mayst fly ! 



O dove ! make in me t)iy home — 
Around me thy heaven ! 

Wherein to blossom thy doom — 
So e'er be love-driven ! 

O dove ! about me be e'er ! 

My heart and my soul 
Are nest and sky, both so fair, 
For thee — to life's goal! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



Sudden Music Came Asireaming. 79 



SUDDEN MUSIC CAME ASTREAMING. 

HANNAH ! how the cadence falls, so gladly ! 
In measures — graceful as the three ! 
Oh ! now it dances — sweetly-toned — so madly — 
She gleamed — sweet mirth — Euphrosyne ! 

O Hannah ! how melodiously flows the song ! 

Oh ! tuned to jollity and laughter. 
Oh ! tripped not fair Thalia's playful throng — 

With rosy-cheeked sweet virgins after ! 

Hannah ! thy dapper feet may not enjoy 

Such Corymbanthian dancing-time ! 
Oh ! come in spirit ! garbed as Love's decoy, 

That moved in groves of Delos' clime ! 

O Hannah ! how the cadence fell, so gladly — 

In measures — graceful as the three. 
Oh ! how it danced — so sweetly-toned — so madly — 

She gleamed — sweet mirth — Euphrosyne ! 

Intervale, White Mts., N. H. 



8o Love- Blossoms. 



LOVE'S MOOD. 

THE lover, as an cverblushing rose, 
That by a fairy-glade's lone arbor grows, 
Is silent when his flower hath not bloomed, 
As when the breeze the glade hath not perfumed. 
He still hath blushings on his doubting cheeks, 
As rose still smiles her pinkish-hued streaks. 
For ever all before his gaze he gathers all her 

charms — 
Thus lulling to calm sleep his anxioux love-alarms ! 

Oh ! she bloomed not for many, fretful days ! 
Her fresh rose-dicnples, like those of morning-fays, 
Spelled me in no sweet trance — like Houri-spells. 
Like Houri-lips, her own no syllables 
Uttered to me; her eyes, so laughing, bright — 
Laughed not in mine to find a kindred loving light. 
My love, the glowing-cheeked, who witched me to 

her side, 
Would she be willing wreathe herself mine Angel- 
bride ! 

Oh ! would that o'er the span o' my loving soul 
A vision I could see: o' a flowery knoll 
With violets, forget-me-nots o'ergrown — 
And tall grass, by a soothing South-wind blown 



Lovers Mood. 8i 

To wavy bendings ! on the summit, pines, 
That dusk the sky that flames in orange lines ! 
And in among the flowers and grass would stately 

smile — 
Oh ! she — whose loadstar-eyes my musing thought 

beguile ! 

What plaint the lover's longing for her breeds! 
On what dim hope the lover's waiting feeds! 
'Tis sweet the love he bears to her fair bower, 
And even if she no love to him doth dower — 
The fragrance that his vision's nosegay wafts 
Is same as one of Cupid's myrtle-shafts! 
'Tis rapture when, in dreams, he sees her grace 

divine — 
And feels her influence by his wizard-side recline! 
Long Island, N. Y., 1885. 



82 Love- Blossoms. 



SPRING'S VOICELESS RAIN. 

THE far, blue hills, pale as the palest sky, 
When high the frore-smoke pales the autumn's 
dome! 
Are in the Season's transformation's womb: 
A warmer shroud of gray! — Rare murmurs try 
To startle Silence: from the bare boughs hie 
The robin and oriole: one sings of heme — 
One feigns the ecstasy of Spring; by tomb 
Of Winter the lizard sings as Joy were by! 

A voiceless rain! whose drops but eagle's eyne 
May scarce discern — so fine, so delicate — 

Like spray of perfume where the suckles twine! 
A toneless mizzle — invisible — like fate! 

So Annie! stream upon the mourning heart 

Soft tears unseen, unheard — never to part! 
New Jersey. 



A Lover's Request. 83 



A LOVER'S REQUEST. 

AGAIN those clear, cool mornings bring the tones 
Of other worlds, where love is contennplation — 
Again the sun — by arctic concentration, 
Is drawn: to take from winter's throat those groans, 
That shrieked, or chafed! to fill the airy lones 
With carols, breezes: love's sweet delectation! 
To kiss, with warmer lip, the spirit's nation! 
And flow the streams with jubilant undertones! 

Oh! Birth of Life! that slept these thirty weeks! 

And will that blander air revive her love 
Of former days, when she had bloomed her cheeks! 

When she, in bashful way, to win me strove! 
Oh! fling thy fragrance, balmy air of Spring! 
To her love-heart — and thrill her soul, to sing! 



84 Love-Blosso77is. 



LONELINESS. 

AY, little villous mouse, 
. Hast left thy little house, 
To keep me company! 
Ay, shy, small hider thou! 
Hast come beguiling me 
With such quaint drolery: 

Of runnings — gazings wow! — 

And why so swiftly gone — 

All leaving me alone! 

Hast thou then known that I 

Was pining here so longingly! 

To peep into the room — 

And gaze into my face of gloom! 

But why not stay — and play with me, 

For I dream here so mournfully! 

Ay, little, villous mouse — 

Why back into thy little house! 

Thy droleries would fill the quiet room — 

And I could better bear my fated doom! 

But come again, dear mouse! so droll and 

small — 
I shall not kill thee — surely — not at all! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



''She is Fairest y 85 



" SHE IS FAIREST." 







H! she is fairest 
In all the land! 
Oh! she is dearest, 
With face so bland — 
With cheeks as campion blown in showers; 
With blissful eyes — 
That love the azure skies! 
And sweet-voiced lips 
Whereon a love-bee sips, 
Beguiling long and dreary hours! 
Oh! she is sweetest 
To woo her hand! 
Oh! she is meetest 
All to command! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



86 Love- Blossoms. 



VAIN WISHES. 

I WISH I were a butterfly 
To flutter about her winsome head — 
Upon her cherry-lips to lie 
And suck and suck, till I were dead! 
Oh! butterfly! be wary where thou liest, where thou 

diest! 
But flutter aye about her: she the wisest and the 
shyest! 

I wish I were the evening-breeze — 

That playeth in her fairy-hair! 
Would whisper her a dream-surcease, 
And build therein my life-long lair. 
Oh! evening-breeze! take me on thine invisible 

breath, that whispereth; 
And let me stay there in her blowing curls, till 
death, till death! 

I wish I were the perfume pure 

Within the rose that warms her bosom! 
Fling ope' the gold-walls, that immure, 

Within her soul, love's bashful blossom! 
Oh ! perfume pure ! like opiate scents bask me in 

thy scent, so innocent ! 
Take me within her soul, that she'll be love-lorn 
bent — that she'll consent ! 



A Lightning- Moment of Rapture. 87 

I wish I were the wee wee bee — 

That drones, through June, to the wild wood- 
rose ! — 
Beneath her lily-buds would be — 

Sting — till her heart as an ember glows ! 
Oh ! wee, wee bee ! uplift thy wing, and let me 

guide thee, to mine own fair ! 
And I shall tell thee sting and sting, till her heart 
wear my deep love's vair ! 



A LIGHTNING-MOMENT OF RAPTURE. 

OH! to steal into the heart 
Of Annie, she in love ! 
Lie there — never to depart — 
And ever lovelier prove: 
What happiness ! what joy, bliss, rapture — oh ! 

what glow ! 
More splendor-weal than June-bird, winging to and 
fro. 
Hath in the orange-bosks, where glides, 

Low under, golden water ! 
And by the blooms — on all the side 
Sweet maidens, with their laughter, 



88 Love- Blossoms, 

Thrill all the languid sounds, that play in tune- 
Thrill all the pulses of warm-hearted June ! 
Oh ! to linger lovingly 

Down where her heart-throbs croon — 
Oh ! to die there glad and free ! 
Would be my highest boon ! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



THE RARE INFLUENCE OF MUSIC. 

THE perfect pianist plays the prelude — 
The all-attentive audience thrills — 
The glowing house is gairish modelled — 
Attention all the audience fills ! 

'Tis some concerto that he's playing — 
With skill, and art, and feeling mixed. 

Some weird wild melodies its passion — 
Full-deep achordes are strong infixed ! 

*Tis, as the prayers of old, the warriors 
Loud chanted, ere the fires flamed — 

Then dies, and melts within the breathings 
Of maidens, for their valor famed! 



The Rare Influence of Music. 89 

It softens, as the far-off singing 

Of virgins, by the Vishnu-sea! 
Then swelleth, as when Baal came faring 

O'er lands to the Phoenecian lea ! 

It flows, as passionate desire — 
As Pan, fleet-footing Syrinx fair — 

It purleth low, as prating Oreads 

While braiding their long golden hair ! 

There hung upon those chordes so hollow — 

A curse, as lone Kehama bore ! 
Then angels hovered — hymning — singing 

A benediction evermore ! 

It was a concert, quaint and colored ! 

The pianist played in perfect way — 
The audience answered all the passion 

He poured into the fancy-lay ! 

I mused in Music's melodious mansion — 
I lost my memory in the strain — 

And with the dreamy, witching flowing 
Forgot my longing's wretched pain ! 

On pillows plumed with Angel-feathers, 

I leaned my heavy head, to stare 
With languid eyes into Elysium, 

And gaze on faces fair and rare. . . . 

« * * * * 



90 Love- Blossoms. 

What see my dream-eyes in the gold-box — 
How wide their lids are burst apart ! 

Oh ! there she dreams; oh ! there my loved-one 
Sweet converse holds with her pure heart ! 

Our eyes they meet ! . . . she flames to burning- 
She heaves — and is a flowery sea 

Of blossoming beauties in exultation 
Whose bloomed emotion swells for me ! 

She leaps the velvet — I leap the audience ! 

She hovers the wild harmonies o'er — 
Within mine arms I clasp her beauty — 

In time to be her savior ! 

As Ella, with her swans, ascending 
The skies, to greet the angel host — 

So rise our shapes, in love-embracement, 
Till from the melodies are lost ! 

As pale Francesca met her lover 
Above the quiet midnight-towers — 

And fast to heart and loving bosom 

They rose to Heaven's joying bowers — 

So twined, in slow-dissoloing windings 
Our beating hearts and pressed lips — 

Toward that far realm of lover's longing 
Where God His loving children keeps ! 



The Rare Influence of Music. gr 

The pianist plays with perfect purlings — 

The all-attentive audience thrills — 
The glowing house is glittering fashioned — 

Attention all the audience fills ! 

'Tis a concerto quaint and colored — 

The last songs fade, and treble soft. 
Applause is laughing through the audience — 

And I have fallen from aloft! 

'Twas a prelude, wild and languid — 

Dear lays — a deep pathetic tune. 
As smote the thunder the huge cloud- zone; 

As sweetly smiled the tears of June! 

And have I clasped my love in visions! 

Upbore the angels two love- clays! 
Oh! music dreams — and dreamers listen — 

And love is tuneful dream always! 

The pianist played — the audience listened — 
I dreamed — she leapt adown to me — 

In love-strong arms I bore her beauty 

To Heaven! . . . And was all vanity! 
New York, N. Y. 



92 Love- Blossoms. 



MEMORIES, SWEET, YET SORE! 







H! lull me to sleep, 

You baby- wavelets of the deep! 
That break upon the gently-shelving sand; 
In murmurous melodies then die: 
As even the headings of a memory: 
Far, far in fairer scenes — in a fairer land! 

Oh! lull me to sleep, 
You creeping wavelets of the deep! 
Across the straits the misty mountains loom; 
While o'er the sea the vessels fly: — 
Alas, portending one high memory; 
Alas, my wandering, all unresting doom! 

Oh! lull me to sleep 
You wavelets of the blue, calm deep! 
Mewould my thought could mingle with your play 
Be borne away, upon your seaward-song! 
As e'en the memories that e'er will throng 
My soul, sweet given to her, whom I love alway! 

Oh! lull me to sleep, 

You baby- wavelets of the deep! 



Love* s Histojy Repeats Itself. 93 

That break upon the gently- shelving sand; 
In slow surge faint — in murmurs, die, 
Oh! so raewould one burning memory — 

Far far in a virgin home — in a paradise-land! 
Messina, Sicily, Italy. 



LOVE'S HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF. 

OLOVE hast read of Valentine 
And Sylvia, his love divine! 
They loved, as we some years ago. 
And he was banished from his love, 
Because he wilfully would go 
And see his Sylvia unobserved: 
At night — with ladder, through the grove, 
And scale the wall; yet he had failed — 
Was exiled to the Mantuan woods! 
So was our love; our actions swerved; 
O'er all the world I roamed — and sailed: 
An exile, in love's solitudes! 
What Proteus is now courting thee ? ! 
Or dost, like Sylvia, think of me! 
Methought Shakespeare's own thought had dreamed 
His play — alas! it is too true: 



94 Love- Blossoms. 

The love we bore, when loving seemed 
As living as the morning's hue! 
And all the action in his play 
Seems like thy love — and my dismay! 
New York. N. Y. 



LOVE IS THE CREATOR. 

ALL lay in chaos, sluggish — undefined — 
God let His love be born — all worlds were 
made! 
So was the soul of man inactive — sloth — resigned — 
Till Love built our civilization's upward grade! 
New York, N. Y. 



END OF LOVE-BLOSSOMS. 



SONGS OF SPRING. 



SPRING IS HERE. 

WRITTEN IN MY BOYHOOD. 

OH! now is the time when all the trees are 
ablooming 
With smiles of a blending glow! The shrubs 

are asprouting 
And, burdened with leaves, they glisten in glow of 

the sunsh ine 
Yes, now the low apple-tree goggles with thousand 

of eyelets 
That blend the surrounding branches; shedding a 

glowing 
Wide atmosphere round and round! And, now 

and then smiling, 
Their cheek in a guaze of pinkish hue, they seem 

envious 
Of cherry-tree, wild and standing near to their 

fireside. 
The apple-trees, the pear-trees, plum — and all of 

their family, 
Fill orchards with fragrance, paint them daringly 

gorgeous, 
Bring sweet and strange savor to airs that confront 

them. 



98 Songs of Spring. 

The orchards are full of tinges that May, with 

artistic 
Soft hand hath, in wondrous time, arrayed with her 

pigments: 
Her pigments of verdure, blending white, and of 

yellow, 
A yellow that kisses more green than yolk of an 

egglet! 
Not sole are the orchards doomed to bear all the 

glory 

Of May-time! In every nook, and rent, of the 

country 
Bright May doth endow the growths with splendor 

proportionate. 

'Neath stones of a tinge that tells of long and wild 
ages 

Lone whiteling Clematis droops her head with ob- 
lations 

To May ! under leaves all withered, sere, from last 
Autumn, 

Arbutus doth twine her limbs with wondrous dex- 
terity; 

And thrusts out her head, coquettishly, blooming 
with vagaries ! 

The charm of the wood's wild lones, the cherry of 
Spring-tide, 

Now too doth beredden its savory head, which, en- 
girdled 

By three of the leaflets, glazy, shining, green and 
soft brown-red, 



spring is Here, 99 

Invites the lone wanderer to rest, and taste its clean 
flavor ! 

And, peeping from craggy hills, the yellow lone lily 

Doth bend her bespotted neck in awe of Queen 
Mayling ! 

Extending her tender arms above her head's bowings 

And filling the dreamer with cravings, bent to be- 
rob her. 

Close by, in a hollow, families, nestled in sweet dal- 
liance, 

Love's violets besprinkle the green, with brown in- 
termingled — 

Where rocks are abounding, stars of white shine 
above them — 

On lank and lone stems they rest — and joy the 
weird wanderer ! 

And even the moss takes vivid color ! clothes the 
old log-barks 

With velvet; and draws upon them red or gray ex- 
crescences. 

Now back to fair fields and highways, trimmed for 
the season: 

Our eyes do meet all the wonders that moon of the 
leaves lends ! 

There grows, in the shade of grasses, the tooth of 
the gold-lion — 

'Neath yonder low mound the saxifrage is awooing 

Soft breezes, that flit around with softening blushes! 

The cow-slips revive their former beauty and meek- 
ness. 



lOO Songs of Spring. 

All growths that the fields hail in times of the Child- 
Hng, 

Abundantly pay their homage to her with kindness; 

And *mong those created children at play in their 
innocence 

Soft larvae of beetles, of butterflies, and gold hum- 
ble-bees, 

Perch now on some stem of grass, and then are 
afalling 

Adown to the softened turf, and there enjoy a fat 
feasting ! 
Ithaca, N. Y. 1883. 



MAY-DITTY. 

FLY. fly, fly- 
Happy May! abloom ! 
Fly, fly, fly ! 
Thy zephyrs blow ! 
Soft samiels grow — 
With all aglow 
Will flee thy foe ! 
Fly, fly, fly. 
Merry May ! abloom! 
Fly, fly. fly ! 



May- Ditty. loi 

Waft, waft, waft, 
Scented May ! thy tang ! 

Waft, waft, waft ! 

Through azure sky 

Fair birdies fly ! 

Send forth thy spy — 

Bid frost: "good-bye !" 

Waft, waft, waft — 
Musky May ! thy tang ! 

Waft, waft, waft ! 

Linger, linger, linger, 
Mazy May ! long, long ! 

Linger, linger, linger — 

Near garden's gate — 

'Neath hoary fate — 

Adorn thy state — 

Remain elate ! 

Linger, linger, linger. 
Verdant May ! long, long ! 

Linger, linger, linger ! 

Fly, fly, fly, 
Virgin May ! aslow ! 
Fly, fly, fly 

With measured wing — 
Let nature ring ! 
Let mortals sing 
To Heaven's Kingi 



I02 Songs of Spring. 

Fly, fly, fly, 
Saintly May ! aslow ! 
Fly, fly, fly ! 
Ithaca, N. Y. 1883 



TO MINE OCARINO. 

AN ITALIAN WIND-INSTRUMENT. 

HAST lain so friendlessly 
Without the memory 
Of one, who loved thee once. 
As, many years gone. Ponce 
De Leon loved his vessel fine, 
That bore him oft through storm and shine 
To wolds luxuriantly grown 
Where Mexico's salubrious winds are blown ! 
And have I quite forgotten now 
That once you were the Prow 
To Pleasure's Barge, my childhood cherished. 
When yet my glow-hope had not perished; 
That you were my sole joy 
When all had called me boy 
Of dreamy wildness — shunning study, 
But blooming in wild nature, ruddy 
And nature-like ! Oh ! have the days 
Grown so that they prompt no fair lays: 




WHERE SALMACIS YET DWELLED ALONE. 



Page 103. 



To Mme Ocarino. 103 

What once my child-like bliss was; 

What once my maiden's kiss was. 

Then would I pipe sweet ditties: 

For, far from noise and cities, 

Where Salmacis yet dwelled alone 

And had not heard the moan 

Of Aphroditus' love — to chain 

Her heart to throes, and lover's pain. 

And now, in philosophic days, 

Has death clutched all thy beauty-lays; 

Of sheep-folk; and of purses 

Peach-glowed; and tangled thyrses 

That some boozed swain upbore 

To signal: ** More, oh! more! " 

Have meditations, deeper 

Than man's immortal Reaper, 

Effaced the memories 

Of thy soft melodies: 

Sweet-mating with the matin-songs. 

The lark in morn's mid-heaven throngs. 

To herald: higher, higher 

Is a world of sweeter fire: 

A song without an end — 

A life with love-lipped friend! 

Oh! have these longing hours 

Of love outtuned the showers 

Of cheery tibial cadences — 

Piped all to quicken the maid-dances 

'Neath glowing oaks, when Hesper 

Has prayed, and sung her vesper. 



1 04 Songs of Spring. 

These days of wild despair, 

Have they neglected thy sweet air: 

Assembling once the wings 

Near forest-brooks, to listen to things 

But superstitious ears would hear 

Upon a lea, ghost-wild and drear. 

Mine Ocarino, friend of mine! 

When, from the rigid line 

Of students, I had sped 

To mossy brooks — where Limniads tread 

O'er glassy pool; and Fauns 

Upspring, like startled fawns, 

To catch their Satyr-brothers; 

Where lonely Echo smothers 

Within some long-cut gash, 

( Where lily-goblins dash,) 

For one who died for her — 

Where all is one sweet stir 

Of myth, and fancy fair — 

'Twas there, my friend! 'Twas there 

I blew within thee melody: 

The forest's lonely ecstasy. 

I knew that loneliness 

Was not like world's distress: 

But sylvan shades are sweeter, 

And brooks and bosks are meeter — 

Than all the store of tomes, 

Within the learn*^d homes 



To Mine Ocarino. 105 



Of walled knowledge! — go 
To realms of sapient glow : 
Where nature broods in thought! 
Without her, lore is naught! 



I recollect the morns 

When, passed the woodland-thorns, 

I wandered, breaking twigs, 

And chasing whirligigs. 

To where the brook-lime shines 

Its flowers in azure lines. 

And sanicles upbear 

Their heads: Quick cure is here ! 

Where spiders lonely spin; 

And where the winnows win 

A wavelet — to breathe the air — 

To feel thd sun, and see sweet nature there! 

And where the rabbit oft 

Doth prick his ears, so soft. 

Where, singing, dips a beak — 

Rcsprinkles the crisped creek! 

Where flit the orange orioles. 

And perch on reeds, like festive poles 

With dimly-burning flambeaux peaked! 

The red-black marsh-bird, sweet bree-reeing 

In joy — and swaying — swiftly fleeing; — 

Thence I clomb some lonely holt 

With sear leaves, whom flowers streaked — 



io6 Songs of Spring. 

There sported the horse and colt — 

And, where no sun did shine, 

Drowsily the lilling kine 

Closed eyes — and, where the pine 

And birch, and alder a concert tune, 

Skipped ever Nymph-like June! 

Then I adown a glacis leapt — 

Where wild-flowers sweet trysting places kept, 

Where all the insects chirred — 

Where fairy-lays linger'd 

Such sweetest brooklet gleamed, 

Till in its song I dreamed! 

Then all upon some rock, 

With sable-green, and redlined frock, 

I sat — and there I piped. 

And piped, and piped, and piped — 

Till birdlings quite outsung 

The ditties I had swung. 

Then nature, Spring-born, glowed; 

And each sweet piping showed 

A long-drawn vista — painted 

With landscape, unacquainted 

To those who shape their day 

With stones, and ore, and clay! 

There sat I, all alone — 

With rushings, and a tone 

Or wild delight: 

The brooklet's bickering flight! 

Oh! there thou wast my friend, 



To Mine Ocarino. 107 

My youthful, rapturous friend! 

Who made me young, and made 

Sweet rapture run through all the glade! 

Oh! Ocarino, simple instrument, 

Then to a grove of oaks I went — 

That spread its branches wide 

To one gloom-steep — the pride 

Of vale, and one loud waterfall. 

There called I all the birds, did thrall 

The breezes to my bonny tune; 

In blissful honey-June! 

And there the goat-herds browsed — 

And oft a gudgeon sowzed: 

Delusion for the falcon's eye. 

Who winged the bright blue sky! 

And there the miller's daughter strayed — 

And beckoned, from the vale's cool shade; 

And there the bees came humming by — 

Or cleaved to flower that winks its eye! 

And songs we heard, as from cuckoos come, 

By Bradmere, a poet's fondest home! 

Oh! there I blew within thy mould— 

I piped like they of old. 

When Galatea strung a wreath 

For couth Pygmalion — 

When panting bosom, hurried breath, 

Announced a love-talk — all alone! 

When shepherds dreamed — and maids 

Knew nought of shameful raids. 



io8 So7igs of Spri7ig. 

When fair Estelle wept bitter tears 

For one, to battle gone for years — 

When she was fain to die — 

But sudden, her wet eye 

Beheld her lover in the gloom 

Of forest far— and thus her doom 

Was life and joy — and motherhood — 

Around her: smiles, a laughing brood! 

I piped of love, that knew 

No love — that was as new 

To me, as is the pond to goose, 

When from its mother's wings let loose. 

I piped in exultation wild, 

Such springing in the heart of child, 

Piped as the birds in junipers — 

As breezes through high conifers — 

Piped livelily, my blood as guide, 

Till tunes on air's sweet rivers plied! 

Oh! there I piped a song as free 

As piper lone in Arcady! 

And piped as lone and sad 

As he of haunted Hamelin had! 

Oh! there I piped as they 

Who wend their even-way 

With quips and quircks, and laughters, 

And smiles and wiles from daughters — 

Such that Hannah bore — 

And fifes are sounding evermore, 

And dancers lead the throng. 



To Mi7ie Ocarino. 109 

That dream their wreathed heads to song. 
And one is sadly weeping, 
Behind the rout: she's keeping 
Vigil for one not come — 
Who's in his early tomb! 

May I remember yet, 

When bloomed the violet, 

At the first shower of Spring, 

All by the marveling 

Of prattling fells and brooks — 

Deep, deep in woodland nooks — 

With fragrant breaths of flowers, 

That waft through vernal showers! 

May I remember how I strode 

Upon the dusty, sun-glared road, 

When breezes quelled their breath, 

And all seemed lost in death! 

Save the supreme lone stillness bore 

Upon its brow the majesty 

Of Him, who blesseth evermore 

Grand Nature with a grandeur free: 

That blooms in storms, in torridn^as — 

In bleakest bale — and sore distress! 

Oh! on that road I whistled gay, 

For well — so well! — I knew the way 

I was to go: o'er hedges yellow. 

Passed ivied huts, where hounds low bellow; 

Where flits, and skims the air, the swallow — 



no Songs of spring. 

Where blooms the egglet-leav^d sallow; 

Passed gentle whispers of the pines — 

'Neath whom some maid-obstructed window shine^.! 

Passed haw-haws, where the jasmine blooms, 

And hears the murmurs of the far-off booms 

Of torrent-cascades; where the sheep and goats 

Are nibbling lawns of freshest green; — 

Passed orchards that have a thousand throats; 

With not one fruit, yet dressed in glowing sheen; 

Where muttering creeks bicker on; 

Where cowslips peep along the shore, 

And bluets thread a maze all o'er; 

And stately basks the lily lone 

Its sallow graceful head; then I leap 

The brooklet's crystal — where oziers weep — 

Nay, laugh to the near solitude 

And to the distant glittering wood; 

For mourning is unknown to Spring — 

Oh! Spring is glee, and trillering! 

Then passed the spruce, the cedar, pine — 

And where the winter-leaves recline: 

There I linger in the cool retreat, 

Far from the dust and new-born heat! 

Thus wandered I to where 

The Spring's cool, fragrant air 

Is purified by brook and trees; 

By song, and hymn, and virgin breeze. 

Oh! there I spent rare moments of delight, 

In God's fair halls, all in His guarding Sight! 







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To Mine Ocarino. iii 

And on a cliff, whose zone 

Was bathed by bubbling waters, 

I perched — with thee as friend, alone, 

To listen to brooklet's saddest laughters! 

Oh! then the murmurs wedded with thy song, 

And carried it upon their gurgles along! 

(How sad I seem to feel anow!) 

We sang together — rememberest thou? — 

With spirited youth-delight — 

As though I were brown Pan's gay self — 

(And thou a token of some elf) 

Piping on his reed 

Where the dragon-flies feed 

Upon the tall wild lilies — 

And soothing, sweeting Phillis 

By hazel-groves sitteth, there to keep 

Dream- watch o'er Pales* sheep! 

As though I were bewitched by spell — 

Wrought by the tune's unconscious swell — 

Changed to the lurid-brow^d Lurelie: 

The brook to Rhine near Bingen's glee — 

My cliff to heights of mythy crags — 

Below the maelstrom, when it drags 

Skiffs, men, to deep, deep graves — 

Whom ne'er a tepid tear-drop laves! 

There all thy songs of sudden would quiver, 

Like rippling harps on haunted river! 

So we piped, and saw the shadows 

Leave the woods, trail o'er the meadows. 



112 Songs of Spring. 

Saw the glitter of the leaves ascend 

To where the falcons' voices blend 

With the crest-enhanced breeze's tune — 

All, all in warmest-hearted June! 

Heard the silver knells, 

Heard the chiming bells. 

Heard the quaintness in the air — 

When the sun is no more there. 

Heard the distant water-wheel 

Slowly melt within the brooklet's reel! 

Heard the wren his liquid warble mate 

With all the dreariness of evening late! 

Heard the veil folding shimmeringly — 

Heard the elfins busk for gloomy glee! 

Heard sandpipers plead for places — 

Heard Eve whisper to Night's star-eyed graces. 

Heard the goblins trail the spruce with redlocks; 

Heard the many sprites low-talk of wedlocks! 

Heard the showers of angels drop; 

Heard the owl on some oaken-top! 

Heard the mysteries low moan — 

Heard the sibyls musing alone! 

Heard Eve's majesty upbear 

Her sceptered hand to spell the dusk-blown air! 

And heard the late cicada shrill — 

Back of the dusk-enshrouded hill. 

Oh! heard the silence, heard the calm — 

Heard the dead death, heard the balm — 

Oh! heard what no existence had — 

Heard all — for sound is there, in all things sad! 



To Mine Ocari7io. 113 

And doth thy worn, black mould 
Bring back the night of old, 
When, with a friend, who with me learned 
What, ages past, men's thoughts discerned, 
I plied the inlet to the lake, 
Where night-songs were awake. 
And there, where water-witches — 
(Hid where the shallow water twitches 
The reeds, and wallows low-and birches— - 
Where, lone, the night-owl perches) 
Their spelling moans so drearly move 
From gurgling billows to the silent grove 
And marshland-jungle — there we strayed, 
And I upon thy weirder wild-notes played, 
And let the boat be drawn along. 
As flowed the stream its undersong; 
And haunted crooks we spelled; 
For now thy shrill woe swelled; 
As, on some night of fret and fear, 
The mariners the fifes of ghost-winds hear! 
We saw the fairies, with their reytes 
Drawn, tangling, through their glittering braids, 
And heard their ouphen-rites slow rise 
Up towards the vision-floating skies! 
And now the pale, huge phantoms floated — 
Then parted — high between, the gold-moon gloated, 
And rimmed the shrouds with breath, 
Such wafted from a pale-gold jasmine-wreath, 
An hour after death! 



114 Songs of Spr'ing. 

And, on the sallow-tinged blue, a star 

Twinkled — and seemed to glow; and, far 

Around, the straying jewels of dream-Night 

Wandered in their ever- wonted flight! 

Then through the star-sprent liquid gloom 

Thy love-tones glided, as a sail of doom, 

Round whose dim ghastly glare there sound 

The fancy-moans of the profound. 

Or, as the sightless souls that cut their way 

Through fires, to that sweet, pure, and deathless 

day! 
Then with the symphony 
Striking from Eternity 
Its modulations to our earth, 
(That hath at night its birth!) 
The wavering wavelets wailed; 
While to the wide, dark lake we sailed — 
Passed one flare-beacon pale. 
That telleth many a tale 
Of wreck, disaster, plaints, and sighs — 
And stranger, dark calamities — 
All done when the moon was away: 
A cry — a splash — silence — at home dismay! 
And o'er the lake we shot! 
Spelled wild, by mounts in distance gleaming; 
And far through groves, the lone lights beaming! 
While languorous fragrance wafted here — 
Blown from the eve's so heavy-flowered bierl 
And murmurs heard we far, far off; 



To Mine Ocarino. 115 

And near, a whipping-sound, like water-demon's 

scoff! 
Above, we seemed to see the angels hover 
All seemed up there as calm, as weal of lover. 
And o'er the lake we shot! 
Tranced madly, by deeming night 
Best tryst for visionary sight; 
And, lured by some Syren-lays, 
That wantoned o'er the rippled ways, 
Our oars they foamed the gleaming waves; 
As when wild Boreas raves 
On snow-capped Titicaca's bosom, 
To froth its flow to one snow-blossom! 
Wfe followed the lonely singing 
To us such angel'Senses bringing — 
We passed them swiftly — maiden's they 
Voicing sweet and clear some beauty lay. 
As o'er the higher seas of musing 
There oft meander songs, whose loosing 
Is pain! so sang they, sweetly, clear, 
As if the blessed alone should hear; 
They sang, as once the swan maids sang. 
On fabled seas, where emeralds flowed — 
And near, those silver-voices rang 
That all the sea and heavens glowed! 
Then rang their strains like plaintive sighs, 
When some pure lily-blossom dies! 
Their chanting seemed to stray away 
As fumes that scent a funeral day: 



1 1 6 Songs of Spring. 

Such that some honored nun received 

When e'en the aspens and the flowers grieved! 

Their sad, sweet swaying glided o'er, 

As, passed some castled cliff so hoar, 

(When proud Attila awed the world — 

And war, and carnage, cursing swirled) 

There floated, at the moon's uprise, 

A craft where slow the river plies 

O'er deepened bed, — and sorrow seems 

Upwelling from the haunted gleams 

Of the craft's wake; and mourning wails — 

And sterner songs heave — and ascend 

To where the eagle sails — 

And departed thoughts in mystery wend 

Their silent way! As down the river 

Where rushes, lilies, and blossoms quiver, 

There surges slow and faint 

A voice, in soft love-plaint, 

(One doomed soul — in bane, 

That joyed — instead to bear life's pain!) 

That waileth plaintively. 

As though it longed not to be — 

But longing in its wail, 

It waileth, as the mid-stars wail — 

So sang those voices, virgin-throated 

While adov/n the sallow moon-eyes gloated! 

Oh! on the night-breeze wafted 

Those sweet songs of the fairy-crafted. 

And as the night-breeze died, 



To Mine Ocarina. 117 

So all their languid singing sighed. 
And with the night-moan's swelling 
Their passion-dreams were welling, 
Till, by the Nereids fondly borne, and tossed, 
Their singing fainted — and was lost! 
Then showered yet their echoes, lingering. 
Like silent raining in the spring, 
Where orange-blossoms, almond-trees 
Incense the flower-freighted melodies! 
And could thy note not stay 
Their Syren-lay! 

But no! my friend — no instrument 
The world knows of, however blent 
With ^olian softness, doth outweigh 
The dulcet voice of maiden sweet! 
Oh! listening to a girl-sung lay 
How all our actions grow so fleet, 
New worlds beam forth^ — it thrills our heart, 
How can we from such witchery part! 
O Ocarino, so we were friends 
In boyhood's dreamy, drowsy days. 
And now — no love-lip o'er me bends, 
How can I pipe thy joyous lays! 
Ithaca, N. Y., 1885. 



ii8 Songs of Spring, 



1 



A SONG. 

T is the burden of a song 

That will not quit this longing soul — 
A song, when days were warm and long, 
I sang in answer to the oriole! 
When o'er the fragrant path a maiden skipped, 

As blithely as gay Eos o'er the East! 
I lured her to my tune, till she had lipped 
Of the quaint burden, and was pleased! 

It is the burden of a song 

That ever haunts my bleeding heart; 
A song, when frosty eves their throng 
Of dreamy vapors spun, called up a start 
Within my breast to tell she wept alone — 
While to the sighing poplars, to the cave 
That dwelled the wind, I sang in undertone, 
As through the night-storm the curled wave! 

It is the burden of a song 

That will not quit this longing soul — 
A song, when days were warm and long, 
I sang, in answer to the oriole! 
When o'er the holts I chased a phantom-love — 
My maiden was a Dryad by the pool — 




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Hope is Born of Chayige. irg 

When I had mused the skies by blossomed grove, 
And had not known of Love's sad, grievous 

school! 
Long Island, N. Y. 



HOPE IS BORN OF CHANGE. 

EIGHT days ago, I leaned against the window- 
sill, 
And gazed, with longing eyes, to yonder 

greening hill. 
Before the house, the apple-trees 

Were blooming fresh, and blossoming white. 
A vernal, soft, waylaying breeze 

Blew incense to me, as at balmy night; 
Sweet carolling birds fluttered above the sun- 
bright eaves; 
I felt, as though an angel whispered through the 
leaves 
Of the virescent apple-tree 
A faint sweet lay of prophesy! 

To-day I gazed upon the scene, but with an eye 
Of altered look, for clouds were hanging o'er the 
sky — 



I20 Songs of Spring. 

The blossoms lay scattered on the sod; 
The apple-trees were green and gray; 
A chilly wind, from Norland, plod 
His cheerless path o'er wolds of May! 
Faint whistles from the outcast birds were the 

noon's lay, 
And all my soul, with olden memories, seemed to 
say: 
" Oh! Hope, wherever she may range, 
Is wandering Child of Mother Change! " 
Ithaca, N. Y. 



SPRING-MORNING RHAPSODY. 

THE white-flowered broom 
Is now in bloom; 
Four petals, snowy white, 
Peep forth in Spring's delight! 
The chaste green leaflets laugh 
In Spring's behalf — 
For, near the roots, gold flowers 
Develop, by Spring's powers; 
And, where the earth is seen. 
Snow-flowers smile in between! 



spring ' Morning Rhapsody. 121 

The twitter of the merl, 

And many a lyric purl 

From twenty songsters in the trees, 

Proclaim that Hylas roams, 
And sits, in silent groves, at ease, 

While creation foams! 
Foams! — Delection is bursting. 
Dead woods are fiercely thirsting 
To sprout, and bloom the scene 
With colors gay, and fresh light-green! 
Who write the ecstasy 
Of Spring's bright glee! 
A man of noble mind 
Can feel it when behind 
The forehead Angel-bliss 
Rings cheery, with Heaven's kiss! 
But no agnostic head 
Can know Spring's airy tread! 
It needeth God-love so to feel 
How Spring doth dance her madcap reel! 
It must be true love's test 
To hear Spring's fragrant zest! 
O God! when lost in Thee, 
So is Spring's melody! 
And when I dream on Heaven, 
So is to Spring sweet budding given! 
And though no one believes 
How sad my heart, how it grieves — 

God! when to the vernal woods 

1 go, what myriad marvel-moods 



122 Songs of Spriyig. 

Of hero, Angel, God-head, crowd 
In me, to make me proud — 
Oh! proud that I may know 
What Spring tells in her glow; 
What all the flowers say 
When they are in array! 
What violets, and snow-star-flowers 
Do whisper during vernal hours! 
What in the vaporous air 
Sings tepidly: Spring's there! 

The cherry-trees are blushing; 
Ground-flowers are fast pushing 

Their frail stems through the loam; 
While sheep o'er gold-embossed swards. 

So green and shining, roam — 
All, all fair Spring's own fond awards! 
Already bees are seen 
Around the bushes green, 
Whose buds are yet unblown; 
But they have smelled the scent. 
So linger: avid, bent 
To have the first sip all alone! 
The throstle trillereth, 
Deriding paly Death! 
And, through the coppice, flit 
The phoebe, wren, and tit! 
The fair box-elder sheds 
His many tassels now — 
While on the oaken bough 



Spriyig- Morning Rhapsody. 123 

The squirrel merrily treads; 

And on the slanting lane 
The robin hops and sings, 

While, drear, the phoebe-strain 
A note from sorrow brings! 



Oh! who can well enjoy 

Spring's happiness — and cloy 

His thoughts with growth's wild rapture 

He must Heaven's glow recapture. 

No bliss on earth is like the one 

When sharing it with Spring alone! 

The man of noble mind 

Can Spring-joy often find 

When he doth feel Heaven's bliss 

Conjoined with God's kiss! 

But no one else — -for Spring 

Is God's delicious marveling! 

Oh! who has ears, and eyes, 

He contemplate Spring's skies; 

And woods, and lakes, and flowers — 

He cloy himself, some musing hours. 

With Spring's ecstatic mood — 

So it lead him to doing good! 

The rippling triller-triller-chirp — 

The shrilly songs 
That cicada-strains usurp — 

They shout: that Spring belongs 
To Youth, and Joy— to goodly minds, 
Such one in Virtue's region finds! 



124 So7igs of spring. 

For Spring laughs at the cherry- 
All bushes now are merry; — 
And, by the lake, the broom 
Has all its flowers in bloom! 
Central Park, 1890. 







THE WHITE VIOLET. 

SHEENY, white violet! 

The stony brooklet's pet. 
In it, like a diamond, set. 



'Midst stones with moss o'ergrown. 
In limp confusion thrown, 
Thou fairest art alone! 

O pale, meek violet, 
Thy heart-leaves, dewy wet — 
In them, like a jewel, set! 
Adirondacks, 1884, 



Evening -Strain. 1 25 



EVENING-STRAIN! 

IT is a heavenly evening, golden and red — 
And I, in anguish, trace back my short life's 
thread! 
A haze hides dimly the bright hill, 
Gay swallows fill 

With song and motion all the fragrant air. 
Behind the curtain-mist a sight of rare 
Faint splendor plays with silken mien — 
And magnified is all the scene: 
Pine trees stand out in bold outline, 
Green meads, that slope, like smaragds shine; 
Small houses display their simple thatches. 
Sweet flowers are sparkling, grouped in patches. 
O'er knolls, soft-draped in gauzy silk, 
The sky takes hue of pinkish milk 
And, blushing, beckons to the sun 
To hurry on his weary run! 

Ht ^ ^ Ht Ht 

On such an evening, flaming so, 

I let my heart forget its woe; 

To fondle a rare, celestial flower: 

Great bliss for but a shortened hour! 

No maid sublime, with raven hair or brow, 

To me need then present her ardent vow, 



126 Songs of Spring. 

My maid is fondest Nature fair, 
Her smile thrills me — I stare! . . . 
And drink her nectar, till I'm lost . . . 
/ see a motley host 

Of Seraphs bask athwart the hill aglow — 
Each one a smile of heavenly weal doth show! 
Each halo to me brighter seems ^ 
As God through all the faces gleams! 
I wonder — and wonder — 
A roar of thunder 
Breaks all the saintly vision — 
A May's rare spell to show me sights elysian! 
1883. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

WHAT black thing is flying through the trees, 
While the azure sky with brightning spring 

Is triumphing. 
Warmer grow the vernal melodies, 
While upon a branch of budding birches 

The blackbird perches. 

Oh! what change upon its feathers black — 
Sure, sun's magic vies with vernal flowers 
And summer-showers! 



The Blackbird. 127 

As the sun-rays bathe the bird's fair back 
All the jewels of the splendorous East 

On neck, wing, breast, 

Glow and glitter, dance and sparkle and sheen: 
Smaragdine on neck — dark lazuli-hue 

Its breast doth imbue; 
Wings of ebon turn to rarest green, 
Mixed with schorly topaz, jasper tint, 

All without stint! 

Blackbird — so ill-named by folk and boor — 
Thee a poet saw this glorious morn 

When jewels adorn 
Thy feathers, like sparkles on a Kohinoor! 
God His marvel shows: His fair work glows 

In all that grows! 
Central Park, 1892. 



128 Songs of Spring. 



THE SMELL OF SHADE. 

THE smell of shade 
In new May's mellow glade! 
The grace of leafed trees in green — 
The smiling blooms of bushes in between, 
Where sparkling sun-rays skip and flow — 
There, soul and I may go! 

The smell of shade 
The May-hours doth pervade — 
The lilacs low spend rare perfume; 
The dandelions the nooks illume 
With golden glow, or balls of light; 
While soul and I are bright! 

The smell of shade 

Ah me! where bare brakes dreary made 

The fallow lawn or rolling hills, 

The dream of May each air-nook fills; 

All laughs in green and jewel-hues — 

My soul and I imbues! 

The smell of shade! 

Through succulent tall thick grass we wade, 
All under groves of dense-leaved trees — 
Dog-wood, pink hawthorn, bird-berries, 



The Smell of Shade. 129 

Bloom radiant in May's air so sweet — 
For both of us so meet! 

The smell of shade 
Intoxicates each young grass-blade; 
The silver trees, snow-draped, exhale 
Their subtle perfumes rare and pale — 
Visterias and catalpas bloom — 
Sweet memories for our room! 

The smell of shade! 

How can life's glorious love-fire fade, 

When all is blooming in the woods, 

And scents bring magic to man's moods — 

May-songs enliven all the scene, 

Could woe have ever been ? 

The smell of shade 

In new May's sumptuous glade! 

The rich wet green of trees and lawn; 

O'er all a veil of perfumes drawn, 

So thick — the shade exhales a scent. 

With thee and me 'tis blent! 

The smell of shade — 
The lute-fall, where the lilacs fade — 
The warbles through the flowering groves. 
All sing to May about their loves, 
Their feelings by the bubbling dale — 
We know them rich and hale! 



130 Songs of Spring. 

The smells of shade, 
Where bushes laugh — the air pervade. 
With scents from blossoms of all hues! 
May thus fair nature's world imbues — 
By lawn, in woods, and valley's glow; — 
There, soul! we both may go! 
Central Park, 1892. 



MAY 4TH, 1891. 

THERE is a fluent, fitful breeze that blows 
Below the glowing sun — 
While virgin May mellifluous gifts bestows 
On every happy one. 

Not from the briny deep air-sprites have brought 
The liquid, that thrills this noon; 

But all the joyous wanton air is fraught 
With crystal waters boon. 

As though May spelled the thousand springs 

Of all our mountain-sides 
To rise — and shed around their murmurings. 

So freshest joy abides. 



Pai7i After Dreams. 131 

There is a liquid flov/ of breezy air 

From mount-pools fresh upsprung; 

While virgin-May lets flow her flowery hair 
Around or old or young! 



PAIN AFTER DREAMS. 

THOU sun! didst flatter with thy rays the skies, 
This morning early, when the cocks did crow! 
Rain's jewels hung upon the maple-row, 
And sparkled where the lessening wind-breath 

sighs; 
Too on the distant hill sweet prophesies 
Of clear air rose — did melt within the glow 
Of thy supremest light! the hum, so low. 
Of trudging bees foretold a warm surprise! 

But when Aurora fled the crowding hours, 
The hoppers of the fields no longer chirred — 
Huge, swollen clouds of rain o'erhead demurred— 
While no more flies danced in thy living 
beams — 
And drear again grew all the glistening bowers — 
Alas! so comes a pain aft' brightest dreams! 
Lakewood, N. J. 



132 Songs of Spring. 



SPRING'S FACILITY TO SING. 

I FEEL it come — as April feels the Spring 
With rosy growths and ruby-blooms return — 
That song-thrill that in all my soul doth burn, 
Even like the soft-flamed marveling 
That keeps so mellow all songs, May-birds sing; — 
I feel it creep — not asp-wise 'neath a fern. 
But even as steaming heat, when violets yearn 
To bud, creeps o'er Spring-leas, o'er everything! 

I feel the flower-ease to sprout and blossom — 
The sweet delicious abandon o' the bee 
That, without work, doth sip June's honey free — 

Oh! as pink roses, top of virgin's bosom, 
Fast cluster at a faint tune love doth say — 
So easily will come my rich sweet lay! 



The Wilderness of Music. 133 



THE WILDERNESS OF MUSIC. 

OH, let those lulling strains that sing of love, 
And are so vaporous to live unseen, 
Float my mind's labyrinthine halls atween. 
Like sacred alleys in Dodona's grove — 
Where man's own fate was ruled by dove and dove! 
And let them linger like sweet scents — or sheen 
Of sun — till they mature to dreams so green 
As once were dreamed by Juno-loving Jove! 

Amphion's shell ne'er moved the wooded hills, - 
Or glistening stones, as thy tune moves me now. 
I loose birth, death — but on oblivion's bough 

I lean, and feel the breath of asphodels 

That bathes me quite — and thou dost seem to be 
A nebulous song whose life is meant for me! 



134 Songs of Spring. 



SING AGAIN. 

BARGE of my wild genius, quick unfurl 
Thy sails, for we must sail o'er ocean's blue 
To yonder beach, where grow the palm and 
yew. 
There while away the time, by shell and pearl — 
Mayhap be soothed by some fair Nereid girl. 
Who singeth to the sea-lay tunes so true 
That fill our souls, to sing sweet melodies too, 
Sweet as her voice, yet wild as ocean's swirl! 

It is because these long last days no tone 

Came forth from my good genius's lyre. 

So reef thy sails, and do as I desire: 
To take us to those shores, fair Musing's own, 

Where we may rest, and sing of Homer dead; 

Of those great souls who all the world have led! 



Impromptu. 135 



IMPROMPTU. 

LOS ANGELES* SPRING. 

OLET me go 
Where all the lisping willows blow; 
Where they their chestnut-budlings show — 
Bursting, with eyes of silken snow. 
Where, near the reeds, the runnels flow; 
And flowers golden in gay families grow! 

There let me go 
When willows all their snow- eyed budlings show! 

Then let me hear 
The yellow-breasted birdling, singing near, 
His song so clear with sun and cheer; 
And listen to the low sounds in the mere 
Where blood-red weeds trail, as in fear, 
With the runnel's gush,that knows no singing drear; 

There let me hear 
The sounds of nature, singing: sun and cheer! 

Then let me see 
The hills roll in each other beauteously. 
And clumps of trees dream on them free . — 
On willow-catkins, how the gold-thighed bee 



136 Songs of Spring. 

Buzzes, then sips them, in security. 
And too, the golden fruited orange-tree, 

Such let me see 
While blue skies shine, and blows the breeze so 
free. 



MAY THE FIRST. 

IS this the first of May I — in town still pent!' 
Not hearkening to the starling in the brake; 
Nor seeing anemones by stilly lake; 
Nor, pensive, walking, where the white fawn went 
To lip the saffron pool at noon's advent. 
Ah me! 'tis stale convention chains me still 
To stony streets; far from the vocal hill, 
Away from dimpling dales, fuming w'th scent! 

Oh! Shelley — nay, my Keats, or thou 

Who didst rare daisies weave for " Charitie " — 
Would ye have so forsworn May's minstrelsy; 

Oblivious of the gemmed apple-bough, 
Enjoying but in mind: the sweets of May; 
The jubilee of Spring's most fragrant day? 



This Came to Me. 137 



THIS CAME TO ME. 

OH! art thou in some verdurous valley hiding, 
Low in some nook — lost, pensive and alone; 
While languidly the noon-sun pours upon 
The sleeping snake that ever is abiding 
Near to that grot, o'er whom the russet-golden 
Broad-spreading beech in girly Spring's in leaf — 
There dreaming on thy days that bore a grief 
To thee — evoking loves of moments olden ? 

Low in the lulling murmur of those leaves, 
That in the May have colors of the fall; 
While all the valley's growths, or large or small. 
In vernant tremors ripple tales to thee — 
Oh! art thou far from hospitable eaves — 

Alone, by verdant Spring — away from me ? 



138 Songs of Spring. 



NO END. 

OH! I can never end my life of song; 
How can the mavis cease his madcap trill — 
How can the ripples on the April-rill 
Curtail their gladdening singing all day long! 
Or who would wish the lark would no more throng 
The morning with his gay songs — how they thrill! 
How can the rapturous nightingales be still — 
Only when death strikes them — and doeth wrong! 

But me no death can take away — my singing 
Is antepast of the fair joyous Heaven; 
Anticipate with me, who am so driven 

To sing and sing — the jubilant angel-ringing, 
When souls of God will be in realms serene 
Some day — when what we sang the world will 
glean! 



New Blooms. 139 



NEW BLOOMS. 

THE heat of yesterday hath yielded more 
Than many days of temperate weather give — 
For now the yellow dandelions live, 
Studding with gold-balls hillside, and the shore 
That mellows the low laughter of new-come birds. 
The shrubs are verdant-budding; and the trees 
Show myriad eyes, red sprouts, or panoplies 
Of tassels — designed to shade the summer-herds. 

What gladness irradiates from the teeming earth! 
Smiles, dimples, laughter, love-notes, nodding 

heads! 
Blushing in wantoness, Spring gladness sheds — 
All mimic, in their joy, the maiden Mirth, 
And, lost to dolor, children of Happiness 
Bound forth from every fold of Spring's sweet 
dress! 



14© Songs of Spring. 



CONTENTMENT. 

1 GLORY when my seven senses are 
Content; for then \ feel the warm sun lave 
My health-sworn body, as with tepid wave. 
I taste the sweet salubrious air, that far 
Doth move with tempered breezes; near, doth float 
About me like perfume from censers rare. 
I see the eucalyptus-trees be shaken where 
The hill-top slopes to dales; I hear the note 

From bird; the silken strain of pleasing wind. 

I smell the scents from grasses on the hill. 
I dream here, for sweet nature is so kind 

To let my heart and soul be calm and still. 
And last.though not in church where myths are told, 
With God of all I do communion hold! 
Los Angeles, South Gal. 



Three Springs in One Week, 141 



THREE SPRINGS IN ONE WEEK. 

OHAVE my feet trod Sicily's sweet flowers 
While o'er them trembled Spring's lithe fairies 
all— 
I've seen the blue, quiet sea; the orange-bowers; 
Date-trees in fruit; and the proud palm-tree 
tall. 
Then, through chill Italy, to Venice fair — 
Where winter no consent yet gave to bud 
The almond — nor the lemon; then, down there 

Where Doria is as Caesar in the flood 
Of common parlance, Genoa proud — ay, proud 

With countless palaces, on dreamy hills appeared. 
Then, 'long the rich Riviera — where Spring's cloud 

Had showered prodigal — to Nice! — so cheered 
Me three strange Springs in one fair week's short 

time; 
I've relished Spring thrice — each in other clime! 
Nice, France, 1887. 



142 Songs of Spring. 



THE POET. 

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 

A WISE magician, he is as the air, 
That cold, can make the mountain-waters 
cease 
To flow; — when warm, can winter-plains release 
From cruel frost — and make the woodlands fair, 
With gold-green leaves, and flowers; birds singing 
there! 
He's as the miracle of sweet increase: 
Where one tree stood — aft' years of warmth and 
peace, 
A forest spreads, rich-grown with flowers rare! 

One wood-brook bubble shows him fair Fatme's 

founts; 

One tear seen, blossoms in him worlds of stories; 

Inspired, he dreams o'er Fancy's promontories — 

Sees fair vast lands, heaven's blue, and seas, and 

mounts — 

And, like the sun, that months with flowers doth 

dress — 
So he bewitches all to loveliness! 



Nature is Never the Same. 143 



NATURE IS NEVER THE SAME. 

THE day is gone — the heat o' the distant sun, 
Whose fire-wheels turn ceaselessly, is cool; 
The champing steeds have left their stalls, to run 
Through scented grass to some lone dimpled pool! 
The crickets chirr no more — and stillness breathes, 
While light still lives; and Luna smiles, and 

wreathes 
Her silvery chaplet 'round the quiet earth! 
The day is gone — but, in its stead, the West 
Lays scarlet on, that, gradual, turns to gold — 
And in the beechen grove new songs have birth: 
The whip-poor-wills are frantic in Eve's rest; 
While 'thwart the glare the bats wheel round some 

fold! 
The day is gone — but, in the solemn calm, 
The moon looks down — and nature sings a psalm! 
Lakewood, N. J. 



144 So7igs of Spring. 



TO THE MEADOW-LARK. 



H 



AST thy fresh and liquid song 
From young Aegle's throat — 
Singing all the bright day long 
Sweetest sparkling note: 
Clear and fresh as large drops falling down 
On the surface of the brook-pool brown ? 

Oh! such crystal prelude low, 

Ere thy gurgle falls 
On the air, with sun aglow, 
To me ever calls 
Up some memory in that vernal grove: 
Where the stream's purl was my only love! 

Art thou on the rose-grown fence, 

Whistling to the knolls; 
As an only recompense 
An echo far, that rolls 
Over yon green hillock — to the bay: 
Hillock flowery — where the snow-gulls stay! 

Nay, thy mate doth answer thee. 

There she flieth fleet 
To the bough o' yon hawthorn-tree: 

Where you both will meet 



To the Meadow- Lark. 145 

In a moment: gurgling out your love — 
True as lovers' own in elder-grove. 

Stay awhile near th' meadow green, 

Scented from fair flowers; 
Radiant, in the Spring's bright sheen, 
As those fragrant bowers 
Hafiz sat in, listening to the tale 
Of his Morning's joyful nightingale! 

Melody moves sweetly on 
Through a scented air — 
Thine is but a sweet flute-tone 
With a gurgle clear — 
Yet in it the spirit of a ripple dwells — 
Such that, in bright woods, the maid-fawn spells. 

Joyous must thy spirit be; 

Fresh as mountain-spring! 
Givest thou thy mood to me 
When in woods I sing: 
Sing of mosses, whispering trees, and lakes — 
Till my strain the slumbering world awakes ? 

So thou dost my dreams inspire! 

Meadow-lark! Call — call — 
Till the air is filled wi' desire 
To be thy fondest thrall! 
Then I feel thy song upon my cheek — 
I hearken — forgetting how to see or speak! 



146 So7igs of Sprmg. 

Then all vanishes: this broil 

'Tween pelf-men, and those 
Deeming all our life a toil; 
All our cares, our woes; 
And the curse that souls must earn their way, 
Spite of showing on their brows Heaven's Lay! 

This world's sin, and low delight — 

Poverty and wrong — 
Turn to visions, cool and bright — 
Hearkening to thy song. 
Would thou couldst thy magic use to beam 
Love again — impearl on life Love's dream. ' 

Under the Eucalyptus-tree 

Listening to thy purl, 
What doth it recall to me; 
Trill'ring of a girl: 
Lying on a meadow, gold and white; 
Or the ghost of some dissolved Delight! 

More like sounds in euchlore-wolds. 

Where snow-violets muse. 
More like drops in fairy-folds, 
Where, from grottoes, ooze 
Mossy waters; — more like sprinkling showers 
On a quiet pool, by Pan's deep bowers. 

More like tinklings of the pods 
On the acacia boughs — 



To the Meadow- Lark. 147 

Far on Syria's sheeny sods — 
When Harmattan blows; 
More like dancing bubbles down a fall — 
More like bells at rites fantastical. 

Gurgle away, thou happy bird! 

Knowing not one care — 
Feeling never longing's gird — 
Ever — ever fair 
Thy^nest, thy flying-realm; thy life — 
Oh! where love, and song, and dreams are rife! 

Art thou on the rose-grown fence — 

Thou with breast of gold, 
Star-flower-radiant — as a recompense 
An echo — from the fold 
Where the kine and steeds are grazing — where 
Bluetts, cranebills, marigolds are fair! 

Nay, thou hast thy mate! to show 

Thee rare cheerfulness; 
She percheth by the apple-row — 
Listeneth to the stress 
Of^thy flute-like whistle, wi' that gurgle clear — 
See! she^^flieth — resteth all so near! 

Stay awhile by yon green wood. 
Fragrant with Spring-flov/ers; 

Fill with song my solitude — 
Many, many hours — 



148 Songs of Spri7ig. 

Many years — so that, on weary days, 
Thy flute-note be key to my joy-lays! 

Three bell-notes from heaven come; 

Rippling laughter then. 
Like sweet whistling, where roses bloom 
In some vernal glen. 
Meadow-lark! thy call is dear to me — 
Brings bright days of joyous infancy! 

Hast thy song from Aegle's throat 

Meadow-lark! say, say! 

That sweet gurgle, that flute-like note 

Have such magic sway: 

That I would to lie on flowers of Spring, 

Rapt, nepenthe-bathed, to hear thee sing! 

San Rafael, South California, 1889. 



RHAPSODIA. 

RARE dowager of Spring, eternal sun! 
Thou comest here again 
To fill with fragrance all the plain. 
The woods and hillsides low 
Where limpid brooklets flow — 
And flowers that colored glow — 



Rhapsodia. 149 

As^varied as an Ouled's dress-magnificence 
When she doth her quaint dances slowly dance. 
And through the air 
The birds more sweetly sing and pair, 
The frolicking roebucks play and run — 
While life renewed lives now in everyone! 

Last night the fishes in the skies 
Would sport in their own spheres; 
For drops fell down to fill the meres 
And drench the plants and trees; 
And soak the earth, the breeze. 
Yet would the rain not cease. 
But fell and fell with tinkle and with moan — 
That sorrow crept to him who was alone. 
And through the night 
Lost was the owl's lone delight. 
All went to sleep with dreary eyes — 
A dirge on every lip — and tears and cries! 

But thou eternal sun! this morn hast come 
Again to sing thy glory 
Athwart the hill and promontory — 
To fill the hearts of all 
With joy so magical; 
That to rare song a thrall 
Was every throat — as in the world's beginning 
The stars sang strains unknown to woe or sinning! 



150 Songs of Spring. 

And through the morn 

A bright new song of life was born — 
That shed upon the sad, sad tomb 
A light — and made of all our woe a bloom! 
Biskra, Algeria, Africa, Dec, 1892. 







AN INSPIRATION. 

PINES, in clusters standing, 
Ye shed a quiet solemn gloom — 
While Spring, with soft commanding, 
Bids nature burst with bud and bloom. 



Sacred your groves, endarkened 

By the weird green, embowering all — 

In days of old, kings hearkened 
To voices in your awing hall. 

Now, only birds are singing; 

And winds through ye enhance their song- 
For all our race is clinging 

To Mammon cold — who breeds great wronj 

But yet a poet's dreaming 

Finds in your gloom a solemn tone: 
Which, in the future's gleaming, 

Will richly roll, when I am gone! 
Central Park, New York City, 1892. 



Raiii of Spring. 151 



RAIN OF SPRING. 

VERNAL rains are falling — 
Liquid strains are calling 
All the fairies hither — 
To fill the roses' cups 
So they will not wither, 
But be sweet when Hylas sups; — 
To drench the musk-rose leaf, 
That its efflorescence- 
Time be lightning-brief; 
To cloy the erubescence 
Of the almond-buds with blood. 
Such that thrills sweet Naidhood! 
Vernal rains are streaming; 
While the mounts are steaming! 
All the fields with flowers 
Pray to Spring's fresh showers, 
As a virgin prays 
When her lover delays! 
While the birds are singing — 
Sweetest sounds are ringing 
By the swollen brooks — 
Near fair, hidden nooks; 
Where are star-flower-beds — 
Mab dreamwise o'er mosses treads. 



152 Songs of Spring. 

And the gentle rain 
Hath its own sweet strain: 
Dream-seas sing not so — 
Nor the undersong of woe 
Dulcet pain to sound transposes 
As Spring-rain on buds of roses! 
Nice, France, 1887. 



IL PRIMO di MAGGIO. 

LONTAN' e il invierno negro — 
Entraa noi il spiro allegro 
Del' primavera! 
Partito la fria essenza — 
Bisbiglia il rio en cadenza. 

In nostra spera 
Tutto parla un' lieto linguaggio — 
Perch^ oggi e il primo di Maggio! 

Ah! canta I'ucello 
Suo canzonello 

Con' allegrezza — 
II fiore purpureo 
Rid' a su' iddeo 

Com' un* altezza 
Del Sud a' su seniore selvaggio — 
Perche oggi e il primo di Maggio! 




SBALZA LA CAPRICUOLA. 



Page 153. 



II Primo di Maggio. 153 

Sopra la zoUa 

Com' un' festiva folia 

La erba surge. 
Nel' bosco fiorito 
II zimbellito 

Col' stagione turge. 
E piu caldo e del sol il raggio — 
Perche oggi e il primo di Maggio! 

Ah! vien' a biacciarrai — 
Col' alma amarmi — 

Donzella bella! 
Sbalza la capricuola — 
Canta la rusignuola 

La sua favella — 
Perche gli arboli a oltraggio 
Brillan' nel' sue veste di Maggio! 

Tu' treccie di capelli 
Ondeggiano, com' velli 

Nel' aria greca — 
Tu sorriso riflette 
Le giovane rossette — 

Lontan' de la zecca; — 
E tuoi occhi, com' e tu' usaggio, 
Parian* la gioia del' primo di Maggio. 

Ta voce trabocca 
E, presso del' rocca, 



154 Songs of Spring. 

Tuoi accent! 
Mischiano in petto 
Col' riveletto 

E raggii ardenti — 
E mi piace piu ch' en un palagio — 
Perche tu canti al' primo di Maggie! 

lo, garzonotto, 

En amor' son' dotto — 

Mi' gavazza cola 

Nel* aria lieta — 

O sensa meta — 

E, mia Sola! 

Tu' baccio e com' il messaggio 

Divino che fa fiorir* il Maggie. 

Lontan e il invierno negro — 
Entra a noi il spiro allegro 

Del' primavera — 
Partito la fria essenza — 
Bisbiglia il rio en cadenza! 

In nostra spera 
Tutto parla un lieto linguaggio — 
Perche oggi h il primo di Maggio! 
1894. 



Uno Quesito. 155 



UNO QUESITO. 

'^TSOLE Fortunate! 

i " Dove siete ? " 
Rispondemmi una Fantasma: 

** Nel' immaginazione 
' Deir anima humana! " 

' Dov' posso trovare 
" Arie liete, 

* Per sempre cantare, 

"Com' I'ucellonel' bosco?" 

* Ningun' luogo esiste 

"FanciuUo mio! 
' Songe al' sole triste, 
** Allora sarai 

* Com' un Angelo benito! " 

'Songe, songe — sempre! 

" Fino II Dio 
' Te dare espressione 

" Per cantar* e cantare — 
' Delia vita divina! " 

* Isole Fortunate! 

Dove siete ? " 



156 Songs of Spring. 

Rispondemmi un Angelo: 

'* Nel' immaginazione 
" Deir anima humana! " 

Cantero per sempre 

Delle isole, 
Pieno de venture — 

Pieno delle songe 
Che hanno gli ucelli lieti! 

**Canta, fanciullo mio! 

"Pure parole — 
" Per viaggiar' ai luoghi 

" Dov' son le Isole Fortunate! " 



Envoi. 157 



ENVOI. 

T O VEl laugh not at these self-taught songs — 
"^"^ I know they bring no treasures rare; 
But would the world be proud and great ^ 
If gold or jewels or nature^ s state — 
And all that to wealtJi s show belongs — 
Were not upon this globe so fair f 

Trade could not be — if earth 
Were barren as the desert sajids. 

Wealth could not live if rare gold fail. 
Proud man is thankless — the ma?iy rail 
At those who give to song sweet birth — 
And pelf is honored in all lands. 

Love! this is true — but with 7io flowers — 
No summer' s fruits — 710 mountain^ s ore — 
Trade, show, nor wealth could be ashine — 
So in the mind or soul divine 
No pleasures live, if through life's hours 

None sing or praise from heart" s deep core/ 

FINIS. 



ERRATA. 



Page 37; tenth line read passing for sing. 

Page 66 ; last line read nor for or. 

Page 71 ; fifth line from below read Who for that. 

Page 71 ; last lines read cheeks^ speaks for cheek, speak. 

Page 92 ; first and second stanza read even as for as even. 

Page 90 ; last stanza read rose for twined. 

Page 103 ; thirteenth line read boozy for boozed. 

Page 105; tenth line read with for in. 

Page 152; tenth line read Entra a for Entraa. 







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